


superstar

by fluteandguqin



Series: Superstar, Before and After [2]
Category: 2NE1, BLACKPINK (Band), Big Bang (Band), Block B, Winner (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Drama, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Partners to Lovers, Recovery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 56,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluteandguqin/pseuds/fluteandguqin
Summary: Two years ago rapstar Kwon Jiyong overdosed while touring, in Hong Kong. After that he took a year-long hiatus to focus on his health. No one knew where he truly was, other than his closest friends.Jiyong is in a rut. He wants to make a comeback, he wants to make music again, but his head's a mess. The hiatus hasn't helped. He hasn't truly been focusing on his health. He's been going day by day in a haze, just trying to write again, tofeelagain... But nothing comes.Thankfully Seunghyun, his best friend and manager, has an idea.
Relationships: Choi Seunghyun | T.O.P./Kang Daesung, Dong Youngbae | Taeyang/Min Hyo Rin, Kwon Jiyong | G-Dragon/Song Minho | Mino, Pyo Jihoon | P.O./Woo Jiho | Zico
Series: Superstar, Before and After [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851289
Comments: 63
Kudos: 55





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Norahtothemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norahtothemoon) for beta-ing this story!
> 
> The events depicted in this story are entirely made up and are _**not**_ based on real life events. I do not claim Kwon Jiyong to be a drug addict.

Being a songwriter for as long as he has been, you’d expect him to know how to handle art blocks.

Everyone talks about writing as a way of handling your emotions, but what happens when writing is the cause of your turmoil? What happens when the frustration over the inability to write adds up to everything else already weighing you down? What then?

For Jiyong, it’s this;

Going to the nearby bar and getting tipsy, searching for the closest party currently in progress, going there, drinking more, dancing, finding a random person to make out with – or two. Or five. Drinking more.

Green. Yellow. Red. Red again. Blue. Purple. Red. Red.

Red.

The entire space is swaying, rocking like a boat, and Jiyong is having trouble keeping balance on its deck. He tries to walk through the dancing crowd, but the only thing keeping him upright are the bodies he’s slamming against.

Where is the toilet?

He can’t see. He only sees green. Yellow. Red. Blue. Purple. Red. Red. Red…

Jiyong pushes through the door and nearly collapses then and there. Frantically, he grabs onto the nearest sink to hold himself up. He doesn’t know if he is alone or not. He thinks he hears voices, but sounds have become too merged and unrecognizable to tell at that point. It could be the music, the crowd, or someone right next to him.

He doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s in a hurry.

He stumbles to the nearest stall and falls to his knees, hunched over the toilet. The stench makes it all the easier for him to throw up, everything, every single shot he took that night, all the food he hasn’t eaten.

The smell burns his nostrils and he tries to scramble away from it, but he can’t get up. His senses are dull, all of his sensory inputs are getting mixed up and making it impossible to regain balance.

For a second he only sees white and he has no control over his body. He blinks a few times and sees— _something_ —and he stands, gets to the sink, drinks some water.

Then the ground is swept from under his feet again, and he is lying heavily on the cold and filthy tiles. He fears that this time he won’t be able to get up.

It’s as if his eyelids are glued together. The bass is shaking his bones and splitting his skull. He decides not to attempt to stand anymore. He can’t. Everything around him is already a bunch of mush, pudding that he’s floating in.

From the white all around him, a pair of black boots emerges. Jiyong sees them come to a halt a little farther from his face. As the person crouches, a pair of ripped jeans comes into view next. Elbows rested on the knees. A leather jacket.

A face.

“That’s rough.”

The man’s voice is as distant as the heavens.

The ground opens up and it feels like he’s falling. Jiyong wants to scream, but he can’t find his voice.

* * *

The pounding in his head is so familiar, it’s almost like home.

But everything else about his waking up is so wildly unfamiliar; it quickly fills Jiyong up with dread. In a panic, he sits up, swinging his feet off the surface he’s been lying on, but immediately gets nauseous and starts swaying. He falls to the side, right onto—someone.

“Woah there.”

This time, the voice isn’t distant at all. In fact, it’s so close it makes shivers run down Jiyong’s spine.

He pulls back, not overly fond of resting against strangers; especially when he doesn’t know where he is, and yet hasn’t opened his eyes properly.

When he does, his eyes sting and fill with tears, and Jiyong blinks them away. He grabs onto the edge of what he realizes is some sort of cushioned bench that he is sitting on, for balance.

While he waits for the world around him to stop spinning, he keeps his gaze cast downwards. Jiyong makes out the tiles underneath him, the dust in the corner, a napkin with a footprint on it nearby.

A while later he sits up, throws a glance around. Judging by the bright neon signs, little booths with red seats, the bar on the opposite wall and the big windows with promotional writings on them, he is in a diner.

The sun has almost risen. There are still traces of violet, the stars are still clutching onto their light, but the sky is mostly a faint blue.

He turns towards the stranger.

Jiyong isn’t sure if the familiarity he feels towards this person is reality based or not. He thinks he remembers the quirked smile and the lip ring and the bleached hair; but he is also aware that last night he was unconscious and visually overwhelmed. He isn’t sure if he truly saw the man’s face until then, yet it looks familiar.

“You okay?” The blonde asks.

Jiyong grimaces. “Splendid.”

The blonde snorts.

Jiyong abandons the conversation when he feels something stabbing him in the butt and he pulls out a leather jacket from under himself. It’s the kind with way too many patches, pins and clips, the last likely being what stabbed him.

He stares at it. “This isn’t mine.”

The jacket gets snatched from Jiyong’s hands, and the blonde slips it on. “No. It’s mine,” he says.

“Clearly,” Jiyong says. “It’s hideous.”

He hears laughter on the right, but as he realizes that it isn’t the blonde who’s laughing, he notices someone else present.

They’re about the same age, about the same height. The burnet’s eyes nearly disappeared when he smiled and he was wearing the largest jacket Jiyong has ever seen in his life.

Being a rapper himself, he simply was never able to get behind the hiphop fashion. So unbelievably lumpy and uncoordinated.

“The question is, where’s _my_ jacket?” Jiyong muses.

“I only picked you up from the bathroom floor, there was no jacket,” the blonde says in the calmest voice and the cold irony of it stabs Jiyong right in the gut.

He straightens up. He isn’t used to being sassed by a child.

“Damn. It was Gucci.” He sighs remorsefully. He stands, slowly, careful not to get nauseous again. “Well, goodbye.”

“Wait—” The blonde stands up after him. “Are you good to go on your own?”

Jiyong makes a show of sighing heavily and looking at the blonde under the brow. “Word of advice, kid. You’re no one’s hero. Don’t get your fingers in other people’s pies, or you'll get yourself in trouble.”

The blonde frowns ever so slightly, and slowly crosses his arms. “You mean, don’t ever help anyone, even when they obviously need it?”

“I didn’t need your help. Stay out of people’s business. Goodbye.”

This time Jiyong wastes no time getting out of the diner. As he walks away, he hears the brunet say, not very subtly, “Man what an asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we embark on this journey. It took me little over a year to complete this story and it's finally here! All I can say is, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Comments and feedback are very welcome. Enjoy!


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he picks up, Youngbae skips over any greetings, _“You forgot about Seunghyun’s thing, didn’t you?”_
> 
> “No, no, of course I didn’t,” Jiyong is quick to reassure, and he’s startled by the hoarseness of his own voice. “Which thing?”
> 
> _“You were supposed to be at his office two hours ago,”_ Youngbae informs. He seemed to have paused when he first heard Jiyong’s voice too, but perhaps he’s too irritated to show concern.
> 
> “Yes, I knew that,” Jiyong says, rolling out of bed and going over to his closet to grab something to wear.
> 
> He is so fucked.

The entire house is too lustrous, what with all the blinds of the large windows open, letting the gleaming morning sun inside. It hurts Jiyong’s eyes, and he heads for the only room he knows for sure won’t be as unbearable to look at—his bedroom.

He blinks a few times once inside. There are orange lines across the unmade bed and the floor from the slightly open shutters. Jiyong waddles over to the window, to shut them all the way, not allowing a sliver of light inside.

Once it’s dark enough for his taste, he collapses onto the bed and immediately falls back asleep.

He wakes up several times throughout the day. Each time he ends up in the bathroom, on his knees by the toilet.

Jiyong thinks he’s reached a point in his life where he knows that saying “I’m never doing this again” is pointless; he doesn’t lie to himself so childishly.

He knows it will surely happen again.

But those are the perks of adulthood: freedom and independence. Jiyong can spend his Sunday afternoon with his head in the toilet if he so pleases.

That entire day feels like a fever dream, just travelling between his bedroom and the bathroom, subconsciously taking note of it progressively getting darker outside each time he wakes.

By the time he truly falls asleep, a deep sleep with no disturbances, it’s pitch black outside.

* * *

When he wakes up that Monday with more than forty missed calls, Jiyong knows he must have fucked something up.

He decides to call back the first person on the list.

When he picks up, Youngbae skips over any greetings, “ _You forgot about Seunghyun’s thing, didn’t you?”_

“No, no, of course I didn’t,” Jiyong is quick to reassure, and he’s startled by the hoarseness of his own voice. “Which thing?”

_“You were supposed to be at his office two hours ago,”_ Youngbae informs. He seemed to have paused when he first heard Jiyong’s voice too, but perhaps he’s too irritated to show concern.

“Yes, I knew that,” Jiyong says, rolling out of bed and going over to his closet to grab something to wear.

He is so fucked.

The soonest he can be at Focus Records is in another hour, and that’s not including the time it will take him to get ready.

_“Just go.”_ Youngbae doesn’t wait around, only hangs up.

It’s a miracle he arrived without any major or minor accidents on the way; his arms are shaking like guitar strings after a powerful chord. Jiyong stays in his car for a second longer, just gripping the wheel and trying to will his arms to stop trembling.

Realizing how late he is, however, he opts for keeping his hands in his pockets the entire time; that ought to do it.

He isn’t stopped at the entrance. He receives greetings from everyone who passes him. Some are surprised. He doesn’t blame them. Jiyong hasn’t made an appearance in this building for over a year.

He keeps his gaze ahead as he walks, he doesn’t look at the polished front desk, the marble floor that perfectly reflects everything atop it, not at the leather armchairs or the coffee and vending machines.

He only looks at the elevators, hoping to end up having one for himself.

He isn’t that lucky.

A girl slips inside right after him. At first they stand next to each other in silence, with the elevator music making the tension greater. Then she dares break the silence with a hasty,

“Welcome back Mr. Kwon.”

And Jiyong isn’t entirely sure how to respond to this. He goes for a strained smile and a barely noticeable nod. He isn’t in the mood for small talk, especially one of that kind.

She seems fidgety, flicking the edge of a paper in her binder.

Jiyong steals a glance at her nametag. He thinks he remembers her; wasn’t she an intern when he’d left? She seems to have been promoted.

The _ding_ saves them both.

“Bye,” Jiyong says, not even looking at her, as he exits. He hears her say it back, and then sighs as he walks away.

The only sounds in the office are that of Seunghyun typing hastily, and Jiyong’s foot tapping nervously against the carpet.

He can only imagine this is some sort of punishment.

He tried apologizing when he entered, but Seunghyun quickly cut him off with a “Don’t bother,” and he hasn’t spoken since.

Jiyong keeps glancing at his wrist watch. It’s been ten minutes, two more than the last time he looked.

“It seemed urgent,” he tries again. He simply isn’t comfortable with the silence. “The email did; or rather, it was the fact that you even sent it. Since when do you email _me_?”

When Seunghyun once again doesn’t respond, Jiyong mutters, “I thought, it must’ve been something important…”

After a particularly loud click of the mouse, Seunghyun leaves the computer and spins his leather chair towards Jiyong.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Seunghyun starts, as if Jiyong has said nothing at all since he entered, “about your career.”

Now it becomes evident where this conversation is going. Jiyong doesn’t even need to be there to hear it, he knows exactly what Seunghyun is about to say, and in fact, he would much rather not be here at all.

But he doesn’t interrupt. Seunghyun is already pissed.

“I hope you realize that the only thing keeping you afloat is your brand. But just that alone isn’t enough, not without any new content.”

Jiyong’s patience betrays him once more and, against better judgment, he ends up interjecting, “I told you already, I refuse to crap out new music just to stay relevant.”

Seunghyun sits up a bit and it’s as if his glare is melting Jiyong’s skin off. “I called you here today because I have a solution. I took your wishes into consideration, because despite what you think, I _do_ listen to you.”

Along with his leg bouncing, Jiyong is now playing with the ring on his thumb.

“Alright, and what’s this glorious solution?”

Jiyong thinks he hears Seunghyun exhale, as if in relief. As if he’s glad to be given a chance to speak without much immediate resistance on Jiyong’s part.

“Things have changed since you’ve gone away,” he says.

Jiyong doesn’t appreciate the prologue, he wishes Seunghyun would cut to the chase.

“Yes, you have a new secretary.”

“What?” Seunghyun waves dismissively. “Yeah, but that’s not what I—Listen. We took in some new artists.”

Jiyong isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that, or if he is supposed to feel anything at all. He doesn’t, anyway. “Oh,” flatly.

“…and, there’s this kid.”

As Seunghyun goes on to tell Jiyong how great he is, how enthusiastic and full of ideas, how similar their styles are, how much alike they actually are, Jiyong’s ears start buzzing. Because he thinks he understands what Seunghyun is suggesting, and he isn’t too happy about it.

He stands, picks up the ashtray from Seunghyun’s desk and starts pacing.

“You want me to work with some rookie?” He says, searching through his pockets.

“Not _some rookie_ , Jiyong. He’s something else, and I really think he could help—”

With a cigarette between his teeth, Jiyong turns and spits out the words, “Help me?”

“It’s something to be considered.” Seunghyun already seems exhausted.

After lighting his cigarette Jiyong shoves the lighter back into his pocket. “When have I ever needed help!? I do things alone, I always have and I’ve been doing just fine so far—”

“So far, yes. But you have to admit that things are different now.”

Jiyong doesn’t want to admit it. He wants to pretend that he’s still himself, that the past year and a half of his life haven’t completely drained him.

Of course things are different.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to create in all that time, it’s just that all of his attempts have been futile. He’s reached peak art block, the kind where it feels like something tangible. Like a glass wall between him and his creation, that he keeps slamming against helplessly. He can see his masterpiece through the wall, but it’s blurry, shapeless and unreachable.

“I just need more time,” Jiyong says at last. This is a lie. He has no idea if he’ll ever overcome this blockade.

“There isn’t any more time.”

Jiyong cracks his knuckles. He stands in front of the large window, stares at the building on the other side of the street. He exhales, watches the smoke spill over the glass before him.

“He gets a boost by having my name next to his on his debut album. What _exactly_ do I get out of this deal?”

“Part of the burden off your shoulders,” Seunghyun offers.

Jiyong huffs.

Seunghyun reconsiders his response. “You get to be reminded what it’s like being passionate about music. You get to keep moving forward.”

Jiyong glances at him, and he hates Seunghyun’s smug, yet anticipating, expression.

He bows his head, chin pressed to his chest. Debating his options, he watches the thin line of smoke climb up from his cigarette towards the ceiling. There aren’t many options, really. And he fears that Seunghyun is right about this whole thing.

“Jiyong… You’ve reached a point in your career where you need to compromise.”

He sighs, straightens up and turns to face his friend and manager.

With a heavy heart, Jiyong says, “Fine, let’s compromise. When can I meet your kid?”

To his surprise, Seunghyun immediately reaches for the phone on his desk, tells his new secretary to get him.

“He’s here?” Jiyong asks.

Seunghyun nods. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t been waiting long. I gave you a false time, I knew you’d be late. Then again, you exceeded expectations.”

Jiyong stares for an astonished second, and then he cracks a smile. “You ass.”

Seunghyun’s shoulders relax as he grins back. Jiyong walks over to sit on his desk and offers him a cigarette. With this change of atmosphere, the brief wait, thankfully, isn’t spent in silence.

When the door opens however, both of them go silent. Jiyong turns to have a look at the newcomer, his colleague-to-be.

He greets them both formally, and as he straightens from his bow, Jiyong spots the bleached hair, the lip ring, the quirked smile that is now faint and nervous; the hideous leather jacket Jiyong has slept on in the diner.

“Jiyong, this is Song Minho.”

The only consolation is that Minho seems just as shocked as Jiyong.

He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. “...Song Minho?” He says, with interest.

The boy nods. Seunghyun calls him and he steps forward from the doorway, closing the door behind him. He reluctantly takes a seat opposite Seunghyun, in the armchair where just a few minutes ago Jiyong sat.

Minho’s leg is bouncing. He doesn’t seem to be aware of it, but it infuriates Jiyong.

Jiyong somehow wills himself to go through the formalities, exchanging contacts, wishing each other the best and promising to work hard. As for the project itself, they agree to let time decide that. “I don’t want to push either of you,” Seunghyun says. “What I have in mind is an album, but you start working on some songs and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

Jiyong isn’t sure it will go anywhere. Throughout the meeting, he kept glancing at Minho, who never looked back at him. The tension was thick between them. Jiyong knows that he will have to set some things straight if he wants to work with this kid.

Because Seunghyun was right, as much as it pains Jiyong to admit it. He needs this, he needs new content. His hands are tied.

After it’s done, Seunghyun dismisses Minho. Jiyong attempts to slither his way out as well, but Seunghyun stops him.

“Something’s going on between you two. There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says.

Jiyong balls his fist, rests it on the doorframe. “Minho and I, we… We’ve met before.”

Seunghyun raises his eyebrows. “You have?”

“Yes. Now, do excuse me.” And without giving Seunghyun a chance to speak again, Jiyong walks out.

Because he can’t let Seunghyun know. He can’t let anyone know that he’s still going out, partying, drinking when he’s supposed to be recovering, when all of his friends think that he is.

Jiyong goes home to sleep some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Back at the club, did you know who I was?”
> 
> At this, Minho backs up a little. The tapping of his fingers, the ‘thud’ sound his rings make on impact, become more rapid as he contemplates his answer.
> 
> “Yeah,” he says at last.

The only time Jiyong is comfortable being anywhere else in his house aside from his bedroom is at night.

At night, when the rooms are pitch black, only with shapes to be made out, when it doesn’t hurt to look. All of the rooms are decorated in a palette in which white dominates. Maybe that’s the solution; maybe Jiyong just needs to redecorate, this time using some palettes with slightly darker colours that don’t reflect as much light. Maybe then it would be more bearable spending time outside of his bedroom.

But not now.

He’s been exhausted lately.

Waking up in a cold sweat has become sort of a routine at that point. Scrambling to sit up, Jiyong automatically starts those breathing exercises he’d been taught for these occasions. A routine.

As anxiety inducing as they are, the dreams never stick around in his memory. A few minutes after he wakes up the swirl of colours, the twisted figures and otherworldly sounds remain, slowly fading all the while.

Usually, he goes for a walk; to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the balcony. Tonight is no different.

But as he returns to his room, ready to try sleeping again, his eyes settle on his phone. As he stares at his phone, and it stares back at him, he remembers the still unopened attachment that Seunghyun sent yesterday, or the day before.

_I wanted you to hear some of his stuff. I think you’ll like it._

Jiyong has been putting off opening any of the audio files with Minho’s name on them, be it because he generally doesn’t like being exposed to new things, or because he’s afraid that he’ll actually like it.

Were it not for this late night confrontation with his phone, he probably would have put it off for much longer.

This way, he grabs the device from the nightstand and a pair of headphones—he’s alone, yes, but it’s the dead of night, and any sound let loose feels like a violation, even to Jiyong, who is wide awake. Besides, he has no idea what to expect of Minho’s music. Is it something worth blasting in one’s house?

Jiyong settles on the couch with a pillow under his head. He takes a deep, bracing breath before opening the first audio file.

His gaze is trained on the city lights in the distance, visible through the large window before him. His expression is a slight grimace, because he isn’t sure Minho’s voice is something Jiyong is a big fan of.

But, as much as he hates to admit it, they do have similar styles, just as Seunghyun has said.

When the first demo ends, Jiyong only knows that the song hasn’t made him feel anything. He forgot it as soon as it ended, in fact. The only thing remaining is the distinct sound of Minho’s voice that Jiyong still isn’t sure he likes at all.

…Then again, perhaps it was simply the fact that the song didn’t match the mood. It was energetic, a rhythm to dance to, a bit too much for a quiet night.

The next song is the complete opposite. Minho’s rap is much closer to singing, his voice doesn’t have that whiny sound to it, rather it’s low and soothing.

While Jiyong listens to this song, the strangest thing happens.

His gaze spontaneously goes out of focus, and the city lights smudge. His eyes slide shut, his head lulls to the side.

The next morning he wakes up well rested and with no lingering nightmares.

* * *

Even though he was late, he is still waiting for Minho to show up.

Everyone who knows Jiyong knows that he’s often late. But today, the reason for his being late was a bit different than usual.

While assembling an outfit for the day, Jiyong noticed something odd. He was trying on some of his favourite clothes that he hasn’t worn in a while, and it was while wiggling into his leather pants that he noticed how they didn’t fit as loosely anymore.

It turned out that a lot of his clothes didn’t. Now he seems to actually fit into them, rather than the fabric hanging off of his frame lumpily.

He was sitting on his bed with his pants pulled up halfway and stared at his thighs. It took him a while to move again, to continue his persistent efforts to fit into the leather pants.

When he did it, he stood up and walked over to the mirror in his closet. What took up most of his time was staring into his reflection, at the tattoos on his arms that seemed to have stretched out.

He almost cried. He had been trying to gain weight for so long, and he was finally seeing results. He still despised his body, his own reflection still sickened him, but… there was progress.

When he finally snapped out of the daze, Jiyong ended up grabbing a green satin shirt and a blazer to complete the final version of today’s outfit.

Now Jiyong is clicking the green button on his sleeve against his glass, his eyes trained on the flickering candle light in the middle of the table for two.

Why was it even lit during the day? Must be for the aesthetic.

With these thoughts Jiyong is trying to drown out the noises of the fine people all around him, and their tedious conversations.

He is nearly relieved to see Minho making his way over. At least he’ll have someone to talk to.

Minho pulls the chair up with his foot before he even considers it might be rude to do so. He immediately rests his elbows on the table, slouching forward, which prompts Jiyong to sit back in his own chair.

“Do you wear that thing everywhere?” Jiyong says, grimacing at Minho’s leather jacket.

“Am I going to listen to you complain about my jacket every time we see each other?” Minho raises his eyebrows.

“Not until you start wearing something else.”

“It’s my favourite one. I hope my jacket doesn’t affect your ability to do your job.”

Jiyong doesn’t respond to this. He glares at Minho.

And that brief expression of panic is what makes Jiyong crack a tiny smile, although it fades quickly.

“Alright then, Minho Song. Before we start, there are a few things we need to clear up.”

Minho nods, drumming his fingers against the white tablecloth.

Jiyong now leans in, mirroring Minho’s gesture of resting his elbows on the table.

“Back at the club, did you know who I was?”

At this, Minho backs up a little. The tapping of his fingers, the ‘thud’ sound his rings make on impact, become more rapid as he contemplates his answer.

“Yeah,” he says at last.

Jiyong slowly clenches and unclenches his fist. “Thought so. But I assume you didn’t know about Seunghyun’s plan? You were pretty surprised when you saw me at his office.”

“I didn’t know,” Minho confirms. “He only told me he had something big planned for me, he didn’t tell me what.”

Jiyong nods a few times, lips pursed. Then he looks straight at Minho. “Here’s the deal: you and I never saw each other at that club. We met when Seunghyun called us over to reveal his master plan, that was the first time we ever saw each other. I do hope you haven’t gone ahead of yourself and told someone about your heroic act.”

Saying this, Jiyong reaches for his glass and takes a small sip.

As fidgety as Minho seems, his gaze is quite steady, and so is his voice when he speaks, “With all due respect, I have better things to do than telling people about meeting you in a toilet.”

Jiyong feels a jolt in the inside of his elbow, a need for an action, one that would likely end with sake all over Minho’s clothes and shattered glass.

But he doesn’t act on this urge. He’s learned to ignore it.

“Forgive me for being paranoid and looking out for myself, but you could have taken advantage of my position. With all due respect, I don’t even know you.”

Minho nods slowly. “...I understand your concern. But Mr. Choi trusts me—”

Jiyong waves dismissively. “Which is the only reason we’re conversing right now. And if you want this conversation to continue, if you want any other conversation between us to take place, you need to know the correct answer to this question: how did we meet?”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. He crosses his arms and audibly cracks each of his knuckles, all the while holding Jiyong’s gaze. “At Mr. Choi’s office, when he revealed his collaboration plan to us.”

Jiyong hates how much this one sentence makes him relieved. He hates that he can feel his shoulders relaxing, and his arms beginning to shake from how tense he’s been until that moment.

“So, you and I will be working together,” Jiyong now begins, “Assuming that we manage to put some songs together. Before that I want to know who I’m working with.”

Minho opens and closes his mouth as if unsure what to say. In the end he opens his arms in a shrug kind of motion, “I haven’t speed dated before, I’m not sure what to say.”

Jiyong curses himself for smiling at this. Before he gets to answer however, the waiter interrupts them by bringing the starters Jiyong has ordered.

Minho zones out while plates and bowls get arranged on the table between the two; edamame, agedashi tofu and cucumber chashu rolls. Before the waiter leaves, Jiyong stops him and asks Minho what he’s drinking.

The younger noticeably panics at this sudden question and hastily orders himself soju to avoid any prolonged awkwardness.

Jiyong isn’t a sadist, he swears. He wouldn’t expect a college student such as Minho to pay in an overpriced restaurant that Jiyong himself has chosen to have the meeting at, catering to his own budget.

But perhaps he’ll let Minho boil in anticipation for a little longer.

Plopping a piece of tofu into his mouth, Jiyong gestures vaguely, “So far we’ve only exchanged formal information. There has to be _something_ you can tell me.”

Minho purses his bottom lip in thought. He fumbles with the zipper of his ridiculous leather jacket and Jiyong wants to slap his hand to make him stop.

“Well… I’m a student at Korea National University of Arts—”

“Well, there’s a surprise.”

Minho snorts. “Okay, what else. My family lives in Yongin, so I’m staying in the student dorms. My roommate is my childhood friend actually—”

“Is music your passion or something? Your biggest dream, that kind of thing?”

Minho sits up a little, squints at Jiyong. “Are you so bored that you need to interrupt with your own questions?”

Jiyong pauses for a second, then nods, sipping his sake.

Minho only exhales loudly. “Yeah, music is my passion. Ever since I was little…” He trails off and continues to squint Jiyong’s way, though this time besides judgment, there is also skepticism in that look. “Will you actually listen?”

Pressing his lips together, Jiyong tilts his head to the side and gives a small, one shoulder shrug. “I’m trying to find out more about you, and maybe get entertained a little. I appreciate how you naturally swerved into talking about your friend, but I’m not working with him, am I?”

“Fair point,” Minho says after a little nod. “Well… I love creating, I think that’s it. I always have. It just took me a while to figure out what it is that I'm good at… It wasn’t that difficult to discover art, but music was… I guess, because I’m a creator, not so much a performer.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yet here I am.”

Jiyong wants to ask Minho, if he isn’t a performer, how will he go through the promotions for their upcoming collaboration? However, he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. As of now, they have nothing but an arrangement. Jiyong hasn’t written anything in over a year. All of this seems very uncertain to him.

But that is exactly why Seunghyun has set him up with Minho. It’s because he believes that this rookie has some new insight, ideas that could resurrect and boost Jiyong’s own creativity.

He hates being treated like a lost cause. These days it’s been happening a lot.

Still, nestled somewhere behind Jiyong’s many layers of pride, sits the relief brought by the fact that Seunghyun hasn’t given up on him completely.

Better to be in need of resurrecting, than be abandoned.

Jiyong sits forward and picks up a cashu roll, starts nudging the cucumber off another one with the tip of the one he’s holding. The words are on the tip of his tongue, just about to burst and spill from his lips, but there is still something keeping his mouth shut. He simply doesn’t want to say what needs to be said, ask what needs to be asked.

And for a little longer, he doesn’t.

“You’re making me feel bad because I’m the only one eating.” He plops the cashu roll into his mouth. “Don’t be rude.”

It’s things like this that keep throwing Minho off; how quickly Jiyong jumps between topics. It makes him raise his eyebrows until he can make sense of what Jiyong is saying and respond accordingly; truly amusing to watch.

“I’m… sorry?”

“Don’t apologize, eat.”

Admittedly, Jiyong did say this leaving no room for refusal, but he didn’t actually expect Minho to be compliant.

And in this silence that falls upon them, as the chatter of people, the clicking of their cutlery and laughter starts to raise in volume, Jiyong feels more and more pressure to just spit out the sentence that he’s been keeping in his mouth this entire time, unsaid.

He takes a deep breath, a sip of his drink. When he can’t handle the silence between them, and the unbearable noise around him anymore, he lets it out,

“Seunghyun has sent me some of your stuff to listen to.”

Jiyong doesn’t look at Minho’s reaction. He keeps his eyes on the plates before him, contemplating whether he should be the one to get the last piece of tofu.

Even though he hasn’t been looking for a reaction, he hears it. He hears the zipper of Minho’s jacket being pulled up and down.

Yeah, he should have the last piece of tofu.

“Have you listened to anything?”

“I have.” Another deep breath. It’s better to say it quickly and move on. “You’re good.”

The clicking of the cutlery returns and Jiyong starts to bounce his leg. The tedious conversations are filling his mind and he wants to yell at everyone to shut up.

“...Thank you,” Minho says at last.

Jiyong leans in, placing his palms onto the table. “Yeah, so I was wondering what you were thinking for your solos?”

“Oh, uh…” Minho is fidgeting again and Jiyong’s leg at that point hurts from the bouncing. “I have some lyrics… I could show you, I guess? I’m not sure where it’s all going yet, I just have some things written down.”

“That’s good,” Jiyong hurries him.

Minho reaches into his bag and gets out a notebook, but since he keeps looking through his bag Jiyong can only assume that wasn’t what he was looking for.

But Jiyong is a little impatient, so he decides to see what Minho has in the notebook currently sitting between the two of them, a bit farther from the plates.

Jiyong takes the edge of a paper that is sticking out a little, and starts to pull it up, thereby opening the notebook.

Before he gets to see anything however, Minho slams his hand right on top of it.

“You never touch a man’s sketchbook,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

Jiyong removes his hand from it and raises his arms. “Sorry…”

And so Jiyong is left to keep bouncing his leg while he waits for Minho to find his papers. When he finally sets them on the table, Jiyong sees that they’re sketchbook papers ripped out of the sacred notebook Jiyong isn’t allowed to touch.

Jiyong takes one of them, which is apparently acceptable, unlike touching the sketchbook itself.

He is faced with what he assumes is the chorus, and verses scribbled around it. It's an odd structure to go through for sure.

While he reads through it, Minho's soju arrives. That way he has something to do instead of playing with his goddamn zipper.

The second paper has less written on it, and is quicker to go through. After he does this, Jiyong sets them both down in front of himself, sips his drink while looking them over.

“I don't get it,” Jiyong speaks, looking up. “You have a way with words, you're a good writer. Why do you only write about love?”

He notices Minho gripping his glass as if he’s trying to choke out the poor thing.

“Well these—aren’t really about love.”

Jiyong waves dismissively. “It’s only a different kind, still love.”

“I don’t think you were paying attention.”

Jiyong rolls his eyes. “Fine, have the last word. I suppose I’m just baffled by the lack of variety in your themes.”

Minho taps his fingers against the glass for a moment. “I don’t think this is the time for me to experiment. It’s your big comeback, but it’s only my debut.”

Jiyong purses his bottom lip and nods. “Alright, fair point.”

Perhaps Minho gets insecure in the brief silence that occurs between the two of them, because after a minute of him tapping his fingers against the glass, with the rings clicking loudly, he says,

“Do you think I should do something different?”

“Oh, no,” Jiyong reassures. “I l—I like it.” He clears his throat. “I’m curious to see what you’ll do with what you’ve got.”

Minho nods sharply, and Jiyong sees his shoulders relaxing. He feels a bit bad for the kid.

“And what about you?”

Jiyong pauses with his glass halfway to his lips. “What about me?”

“What about your solos?”

Jiyong gives up on this sip, instead simply placing the glass back down. “I have an outline.”

“So, you’ve got nothing.”

Jiyong’s gaze snaps up. “I guess you can say you’ve given me reverse-inspiration. Thanks to you, I know exactly what I _don’t_ want to do.”

As Minho keeps giving him that uncertain, and perhaps a little bit judgmental look, Jiyong starts to feel uneasy. Like he owes Minho an explanation.

He doesn’t.

He’s better than this.

Still, underneath that look, he caves,

“I’ve been away for over a year. And I’m… still not fully back. You’re gonna have to give me some time.”

At this Minho’s gaze softens and he gives a small nod. Another tap to his glass. “So no love songs from you.”

Jiyong shakes his head.

“Isn’t your most famous song a ballad?”

Jiyong hates the cockiness in Minho’s tone. He shifts in his seat, rests his cheek in his palm. “Untitled is bullshit.”

Minho grins. “I guess everyone writes what sells at some point.”

“We do,” Jiyong agrees. He picks up the menu that has been sitting there, abandoned, while him and Minho talked. “But I think I've had enough talk about work.” He hands Minho the menu.

He doesn't take it.

Jiyong exhales through the nose. “Don't look so panicked, Minho. It's all on me.”

Hesitantly, Minho does take the menu. And still, he picks one of the cheapest items on it.

Oh well. Getting him not to shy away from spending Jiyong's money is something they'll have to work on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jiyong hasn’t exactly been in contact with his friends. He’s kept his communication with Seunghyun professional. He hasn’t heard from Daesung in a very long time. As for Youngbae…
> 
> He sometimes picks Jiyong up from parties. He is the only one allowed to know, because Jiyong knows Youngbae won’t freak out on him.
> 
> And so Jiyong texts him, and the screen doesn’t even sway that much.

It isn’t nearly as bad as the last time. As soon as he starts to feel woozy and sick, Jiyong decides to call someone.

The problem is, who to call?

Jiyong hasn’t exactly been in contact with his friends. He’s kept his communication with Seunghyun professional. He hasn’t heard from Daesung in a very long time. As for Youngbae…

He sometimes picks Jiyong up from parties. He is the only one allowed to know, because Jiyong knows Youngbae won’t freak out on him.

And so Jiyong texts him, and the screen doesn’t even sway that much.

Jiyong gets himself outside and sits on the pavement in the middle of the parking lot. There, he waits.

When Youngbae finds him, Jiyong tries to make himself small and remorseful in hopes of cushioning Youngbae's anger, however he is clearly having none of it.

Perhaps he is the tiniest bit surprised when he picks Jiyong up and he no longer weighs like a bag of feathers, but Youngbae is entirely too pissed to comment on it.

By the time he’s loaded into the passenger seat, Jiyong is dozing off. He rests his head on the window frame, and it bounces a little as Youngbae starts the car and drives off.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

Youngbae’s voice seems to be miles away.

“And I’m sick of watching you do it.”

Headlights, street lights, traffic lights are smudged lines of colour in Jiyong’s vision. They make his head spin and hurt his eyes, so he closes them.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

And a second later, “Take me home, please.”

* * *

The next morning Jiyong doesn’t wake up in his own home. Still, he is able to find the bathroom without much thinking.

On his knees again. But it isn’t as bad as the last time, he knows. He knows how many shots he’s taken and he knows his body well enough by now to know that ahead of him isn’t such a horrible hangover.

It isn’t nearly as bad as the last time.

That time when he met Minho.

The thought alone almost makes him sick again, so he stays hunched over the toilet for a little while longer.

False alarm.

Jiyong flushes the toilet and stands. He needs to lean against the wall and stand still for a while, until the wave of dizziness passes. Then he goes to drink some water, wash his face... Brushing his teeth would be great too. He knows where Youngbae keeps those little hygiene packs one gets on long flights, consisting of a small toothbrush, a tiny tube of toothpaste and some dental floss.

Just as he finishes, Jiyong hears a little cough from behind him.

He doesn’t turn around right away. He turns the water off and takes a deep breath, before very slowly straightening up and turning to face the only person he wants to see less than he wants to see Youngbae at the moment.

His wife.

Hyorin is leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, blocking the only exit. Forcing Jiyong to face her head on.

Hyorin isn’t speaking and that just might be more terrifying than if she was. She’s only giving Jiyong a look that he can’t decipher.

“I told him to take me home,” Jiyong says, because he can’t handle the silence anymore. “I meant— _my_ home. I’m sorry.” He makes a ninety degrees bow and isn’t quick to straighten back up.

He clicks his nails against the porcelain sink while he anticipates her reaction.

“What’s important is for you to get home safely,” Hyorin speaks at last. “But you need to understand that this isn’t good for you just as much as it isn’t good for us. What you’re doing is damaging for _everyone_.”

At this, Jiyong bows his head, not having anything to say other than another apology. But he feels it redundant.

“We’ll be having kimbap. You know your way around, so... Feel free to join us whenever you’re ready.”

Jiyong nods. He waits for Hyorin to leave before he dares to move.

He would’ve wanted to leave immediately. Most of all, he would’ve wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation, which has already failed.

But, since he’s already here, he decided to make the most of it.

Jiyong comes down the stairs after a much needed shower, wearing one of Youngbae’s shirts along with Hyorin’s shorts, as he doesn’t have any clothes of his with him. This is somewhat of a standard procedure.

He stops briefly at the doorway of the kitchen, where Hyorin and Youngbae seem to be waiting for him. They’re seated opposite of each other, talking in hushed voices. Hyorin is hugging her knees, she’s leaning back in her chair with her feet on it, unlike Youngbae who has his elbows rested on the glass table, leaning forward.

Jiyong doesn’t want to announce his presence. He shuffles forward, letting them notice him whenever they want.

But even when they do, they don’t say much. Jiyong only feels Youngbae’s gaze on himself as he takes a seat next to Hyorin, although leaving one empty between them, which isn’t where the table is set for him.

“I can remove you from my emergency contacts,” he says, reaching for his bowl and chopsticks.

“Don’t do that,” Youngbae snaps. “Don’t guilt trip.”

“I’m not guilt tripping,” Jiyong snaps right back. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience for you and Hyorin. Asking you to take care of me whenever I get hammered is simply unfair and selfish of me. I value our friendship and I don’t want to do this to you anymore.” He doesn’t look up once as he says it, only poking a piece of kimbap until he eventually munches it down.

If he did look up, he would’ve seen Youngbae’s half pissed, half astonished gaze.

“Jiyong, you are so full of shit,” Youngbae tells him.

He doesn’t respond.

“What he means is that you’re completely missing the point.” Just because Hyorin is speaking in a gentler tone doesn’t mean her words aren’t ice cold. “As friends, we’re here to help whenever we can. We would rather make sure you’re safe than ignore you for the sake of our own comfort.”

She unfolds, puts her feet back on the ground and turns towards Jiyong. He doesn’t look at her.

“The _point_ is for you to stop putting yourself in these situations.”

Jiyong’s silence makes Youngbae even more distressed.

“At least don’t go alone,” he says. “I can’t go out every time, but there’s gotta be someone you can take out.”

Jiyong stands to pour himself a glass of water. “Like a babysitter.”

“You know what I meant,” Youngbae says tiredly.

Jiyong returns to the table and his food, silent. He can’t say that he simply goes out too often to bring someone along every time. He can’t say that he is simply too ashamed to be seen in that state by anyone he truly cares about.

The only thing he can think to say is, “I’ll be more careful.”

“Sure,” sarcastically.

Hyorin’s next inquiry about Youngbae’s plans for tomorrow is a clear attempt at shifting the topic.

He doesn’t mind.

It’s oddly comforting, listening to them talk about mundane things. It feels like a little glimpse into married life, something Jiyong can’t really see himself having, not anytime soon at least.

But Hyorin and Youngbae make it seem so easy, and so, so lovely.

Jiyong only looks up from his bowl when Youngbae decides to include him in the conversation.

“Seunghyun told me you’ll be working on something.”

Jiyong wonders how many people Seunghyun has told. It probably doesn’t matter anyway, they will find out sooner or later. The world will find out.

Jiyong only doesn’t want the project to be a failure. He isn’t sure he could handle it.

He doesn’t say it, he doesn’t verbalize a single thought. He only gives a nod.

“That’s great, Jiyong,” Hyorin says, reaching out and squeezing his hand.

Even Youngbae has a little smile on his lips. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been waiting to hear those words. I’m so glad you’re coming back.”

The look Jiyong gives him wipes the smile off Youngbae’s face. He looks at Hyorin and in the next moment she politely excuses herself.

When she’s gone, Youngbae moves to sit beside Jiyong and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” Jiyong starts and runs a hand through his hair. “There’s just the tiniest, little problem.”

“That being?”

Jiyong locks eyes with Youngbae. “I haven’t written anything since before the tour.”

Youngbae frowns, as if he’s trying to make sense of Jiyong’s words. “And so? That’s hardly such a big problem. Artistic blockades don’t last forever.”

At this, Jiyong sighs. “You don’t _understand_.” He drops his chopsticks and sits back, gripping the edge of the table. He stares at the ceiling, trying to finally put into words that which has been on his mind for so long.

“I’ll— _fuck_.” He closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write the way I used to when I was—My mind is _completely_ blank now.” He lets his hands drop. Once he’s said this, there is only one more horrible truth to speak.

“Maybe I never really wrote anything. I think it was always just the drugs.”

Immediately after closing his mouth, Jiyong regrets ever speaking at all. He wishes he could sew his mouth shut and never speak again. Because he hates it, he _hates_ the uncomfortable silence his honesty has created.

He wants to take it all back, to say that it’s really not a big deal, but he knows it’s a bit too late for that.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Youngbae says. “A lot of people write when high. It’s not all good.”

Jiyong gives the tiniest smile accompanied with an appreciative huff, if only not to seem like he’s rejecting the reassurance.

Youngbae rubs his eyes tiredly before he speaks, “You do realize we were friends when we were kids, right? You realize I read the first things Kwon Jiyong has ever created. You were never a shitty writer. You’re experiencing withdrawal, that’s what this is, and it’s not undefeatable.”

Jiyong feels his throat closing up and he thinks he will choke unless the conversation stops right here. He isn’t ready to talk about this and he doesn’t think he ever will be.

But he’s fine with that.

He just wants to forget.

“Here’s what you do,” Youngbae then says, and Jiyong forces himself to look up, to properly accept the advice that’s undoubtedly on its way. “Write about what’s on your mind—”

“No one wants to hear that,” Jiyong cuts him off.

“Let me finish, for fuck’s sake.” Youngbae sighs.

Jiyong honestly has no idea where Youngbae or Hyorin, or anyone of his friends are getting the patience to deal with his shit.

“No one has to see it. It’s just supposed to help you get started, because there’s always something to write about on that topic. Always. Even if it’s just broken sentences. Write anything and everything you’re thinking, and go from there.”

Jiyong doesn’t think this will work, mostly because his mind is the one thing he really wants to run from, but he nods nonetheless. He appreciates the advice.

He’s thankful to Youngbae and Hyorin more than he could ever express, but the problem is that he is awful at expressing even normal amounts of gratitude.

It always ends up being a flat, nearly insincere sounding, “Thanks.”

It’s odd, what makes Jiyong smile that day. It’s a sarcastic, amused smile accompanied with a roll of his eyes while in the car, being taken home.

Jiyong simply finds it funny how formal Minho continues to be. The e-mail he sent Jiyong is so proper, it would make any high school teacher tear up.

Apparently, Minho has written more lyrics. And as much as Jiyong wants to dwell on the form of the e-mail, he knows the lyrics are what he should be focusing on.

Unfortunately, this makes him roll his eyes as well. Minho seems to be continuing his streak of love songs and it’s making Jiyong think that he’ll back out of this deal sooner than he’d thought.

When Hyorin drops him off, the sky is already fading.

That night, he once again wakes up in a cold sweat, taking a moment to calm himself down. Then, unable to resume sleeping, he lies in his bed, thinking about Minho’s newest lyrics as he stares at the light strips on the ceiling.

He’s thinking about how childish it sounds. Jiyong has never sang about butterflies in one’s stomach upon seeing someone special. And he won’t from this point on, he thinks to himself.

The song needs fixing.

* * *

Jiyong is pulled from the entrapments of his dream when his phone starts ringing. He can’t move right away. It’s agonizing, listening to such a loud noise so early in the morning. Even when he manages to get a hold of his phone, he can’t see. He tries to blink the wooziness away at least enough to finally answer the call.

“Hello?” If he wasn’t so slow and disoriented, he would have sounded irritated.

There’s the tiniest pause. _“This is Minho. I was asleep when you called, so… What’s—why did you…”_

Jiyong finds this most curious considering he has no recollection of ever calling Song Minho. “I called?” He huffs out, exhausted and not amused, not at all. He blinks again, lifts his phone from his ear to check his call history.

_“Yes, at four in the morning.”_

Jiyong stares at his screen. Minho isn’t lying. “I see. How do I say this.” Jiyong sighs. “I have no idea why I called you. I don’t remember doing it.”

Minho doesn’t know how to respond, judging by the long silence after Jiyong’s words. He clears his throat. _“Sorry for disturbing you, then.”_

Jiyong rubs his cheek. “No problem. See you around.”

_“Goodbye.”_

Eight am. Jiyong wonders, is he going to continue to be woken up that early because his colleague is a damn college student, and a diligent one at that.

As there is no going back to sleep once he’s awake, Jiyong forces himself out of bed. Even if he isn’t going to be productive that day, he’s heard that taking care of hygiene and one’s looks helps create an illusion of productivity.

This is what he spends his morning on.

Standing in his living room, wearing Youngbae’s shirt that he hasn’t returned, his hair damp, contemplating whether it’s even worth trying to make breakfast for himself, something catches Jiyong’s attention.

A piece of paper lying on the couch. It’s scribbled all over, in his handwriting, however Jiyong doesn’t remember ever writing any of that. He recognizes parts of it as Minho’s newest lyrics. The rest…

It comes back to him like a brick to the forehead. It’s his corrections of the lyrics, or rather lines he wrote down to turn Minho’s original idea on its head.

He stares a little longer at the piece of paper. And he smiles.

The lines, “You’re stealing glances // Haven’t felt this nervous in a while // Before the night is over // I want you in my arms,” Jiyong fixed with simply adding, “Real love? I think I wanna just.” This is where Jiyong must have lost track of thought, or similar because the line simply cut off. And ten, a bit further, he scribbled a big, “FUCK IT.”

There’s more on the side, lines that turned Minho’s story of a fluttering love into a story of detachment and emotional exhaustion.

Jiyong stays there, just looking down at the piece of paper, smiling and nodding to himself, before he remembers.

He takes his phone and calls Minho again.

He is confused to be hearing from Jiyong so soon. _“Hello?”_

“I remembered why I called you.”

_“Oh. And?”_

“I wrote something.”

The silence makes Jiyong realize that he must have sounded silly. That Minho knows very little of his yearlong artistic blockade and has no reason to have a significant reaction to Jiyong’s announcement.

_“That’s… nice?”_ Ah, Minho is trying. Bless his soul.

Jiyong clears his throat. “I meant, I wrote some-- corrections to your work. Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want a love song?”

_“You told me to send you anything I get out, and that’s what I had.”_

Jiyong nods a few times. “I did say that. Well, I turned it into something I could work with. I’ll send it over when I… tweak it a little bit.”

_“That’s—yeah, okay.”_

Jiyong pauses. He isn’t sure if he’s reading too much into it, or if he’s just heard excitement in Minho’s voice.

“Bye for now.”

* * *

Jiyong ended up being unable to return to the scrambles of the lyrics he’s started writing, and to make it something more.

And as he feels the familiar flames of frustration burning him from the inside, Youngbae’s words come back to him.

Jiyong glances at the window and sees his own reflection, faint and transparent. Can he write about what’s on his mind? Does he even want to?

He’s spent a year running from his own mind and the endless emptiness of it.

He isn’t sure that he wants to dive back into that abyss.

He’s afraid that if he does, there will be no return.

He is afraid.

Jiyong huffs. He stands up from the couch and lights another cigarette, tossing the empty pack on the glass coffee table. He paces around it, pauses in front of the window to make smoke rings that end their short lives dispersing against the glass surface.

What _is_ on his mind?

There don't seem to be any coherent thoughts, in all honesty. Those are exactly what Jiyong has been running from.

But without getting too deep, what is on his mind?

He wants to scream.

Ever since his discharge he’s wanted nothing more, but he couldn’t.

For an entire year he’s felt nothing. Even when getting drunk to the point of incoherence, it was but the tiniest, insignificantly small fraction of the euphoria he used to be able to experience.

Day to day life brought him even less. He was always exhausted, always numb to the point where he wondered; what’s the difference between this and death?

And he never had the strength to do anything about it. Always dizzy, with a foggy mind, he had no strength to go through with any intrusive thoughts that might cross his mind.

He wants to scream. He wants to feel something, anything.

If it’s pain then so be it. If he must get himself into danger, then so be it.

He wants to feel like himself again.

That night, Jiyong is restless. There’s something burning in his chest, a want that he can’t explain. He’s written down words upon words that hold no meaning to anyone who doesn’t know his mind.

The restlessness isn’t letting him sleep. And so, Jiyong turns to the self-imposed numbness, taking the bunch of pills that always help him sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took them long enough, meeting up as frequently as they could, to complete the lyrics for both their songs, and their collaboration, but they were finally done. Three songs don’t make an album, but considering how shakily and uncertainly the project started, they were doing better than expected.
> 
> Now it’s time to decide how they will proceed.

_“A fever?”_

“Yeah. It came out of nowhere, I’m telling you.” Jiyong shoves more pasta into his mouth.

Seunghyun’s slightly pixilated face shows concern.

That the fever came out of nowhere might just be the easiest way to put it. The odd thing is that it appeared the morning after Jiyong threw up all those words onto the paper. However his beliefs are simply not allowing him to make a connection between his badly worded lyrical confession and his physical ill-being.

Whatever the cause of it, the fever was but the deciding factor for Jiyong to postpone his and Seunghyun’s meeting. He wasn’t feeling like going anyway, but the exhaustion after three days of burning up served as a perfect excuse.

So there they are, both eating their respective lunches at their respective homes and face-timing. Close enough.

_“You were fine on your own? Did you go see a doctor?”_

Jiyong rolls his eyes, lets his hand that is holding a fork dramatically fall on the table. “Yup, I’m a big boy, I can handle myself. If I needed someone to make me chicken soup and hold my hand, I would’ve called you.”

Seunghyun huffs, shifts in his seat. _“What I meant is that your meds might not go well with anti-inflammatory drugs, you ass. If you took any you should have consulted first—”_

Jiyong waves him off. He puts the fork down and starts pressing down on his chest. “It was fine, it practically went down on its own. Jesus Seunghyun, I’m not five.”

Seunghyun raises the hand that isn’t holding the phone in surrender. _“I was just checking.”_

They eat in silence.

The funny thing is that Seunghyun still believes that Jiyong is taking medication. All of them do. This is what he was supposed to do after rehab: see a psychiatrist, get medication, go to therapy. Jiyong, however, took a less traditional route: self medication. That’s what he’s familiar with, what worked for him in the past. The only problem is that he can’t let his friends know.

Jiyong knows the silence won’t last.

The question is inevitable.

“How’s it going with Minho?”

Jiyong doesn’t look up from his _quattro formaggi_. “It’s going.” He chews. “He’s full of ideas. Nearly finished a song.”

_“You like his work?”_

Jiyong mumbles in affirmation.

_“Good. I’m glad.”_

Jiyong keeps chewing. He feels like the conversation isn’t over.

_“What about you?”_

“You’re up my ass too?”

_“Jiyong, I’m your manager. Me and Minho, as your colleague, are the only ones who have the right to be up your ass about this.”_

Jiyong glances at the screen. Even through the pixels he can see Seunghyun’s judgmental and expecting expression.

He sighs. “I have first drafts for two songs, possibly an idea for a third one. But it’s all over the place, it’s—it’s gonna take a lot of editing.”

Seunghyun nods with a hum as the only response. Jiyong hears the clicking of cutlery on his end.

_“Maybe Minho can help.”_

Jiyong’s eyes nearly get stuck in his skull. “I’m sure a rookie with zero experience will be able to edit my lyrics into perfection.”

_“Don’t be an asshole. I just think he might have some ideas or… insight.”_

Jiyong stabs a _penna_. “No one’s got insight into what I’m writing about right now. And seriously, you’re giving him way too much credit.”

_“I guess we’ll see.”_

As if he needs help. What he needs is more time. He needs his mind to clear and to stop being sick.

He’s not sure that will happen anytime soon. But he still doesn’t need help.

That’s what Jiyong keeps repeating to himself in the fifth hour of his more or less hopeless attempts to collect his thoughts.

The near five hours weren’t completely unproductive, no. But their product is hardly useful. He’s managed to box the words into verses, but they aren’t working. Jiyong’s vision doesn’t match what’s on the paper, and there’s truly nothing more frustrating than that.

Chair loudly screeching against the floor, Jiyong stands up. He tries to talk himself out of it while pouring himself a drink, while looking for his cigarettes, while lighting one up.

And he doesn’t succeed.

He drops back onto his chair, a few drops of Baileys escaping the glass. He stares at the screen of his laptop and it stares back at him. Then he starts to type an email.

_I hope you’re sleeping_

_Sending some lyrics in the attachment. It needs to be worked on. Tell me what you think._

_Jiyong_

* * *

It must be unhealthy to be woken up so abruptly.

Blinking away the flashes and colours of his dream, Jiyong presses his phone to his ear.

“I can’t get used to your student rhythm. It’s too early for this.”

_“I can call later.”_

Jiyong sits up, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Well I’m awake now. Shoot.”

_“I took a look at your song.”_

He sounds hesitant, nervous even. Jiyong can’t say he’s very happy to be receiving criticism from a child either.

_“The first verse is powerful, the last one too. The, uh, chorus could have a better flow. I could return the file with some notes if that’s…”_

Jiyong continues to rub at his temple. It doesn’t seem like the headache will be leaving soon.

He doesn’t like where this project is heading, or rather _how_ it’s unwinding. He’s never had a problem doing things on his own. This, this is humiliating.

“Yeah, you do that.”

Neither of them speaks. Jiyong nearly zones out before he remembers that he has no intention of staying on the phone with Minho the entire morning.

“Anything else?”

_“Well—yes. You corrected my lyrics a while back. And I was thinking—if we want to write a song together, I don’t think this way will work.”_

“And which way is that?”

_“Over the phone. Emails. It can be convenient, sure, but I don’t think the product of it will be genuine. Or good at all, for that matter.”_

He’s unsteady on his own feet. Jiyong leans against the wall and puts his hand on his hip. “You think we need to do this in person?”

Minho takes a breath which meaning Jiyong can’t determine. _“I know we do.”_

Jiyong nods a few times. “Alright. Okay. I’ll send you an address, you tell me when you’re free.”

This next sigh of Minho’s is more easily determined—relief.

* * *

It took them long enough, meeting up as frequently as they could, to complete the lyrics for both their songs, and their collaboration, but they were finally done. Three songs don’t make an album, but considering how shakily and uncertainly the project started, they were doing better than expected.

Now it’s time to decide how they will proceed.

Jiyong leans forward, swishing the liquid in his glass around. “At this point we can either start recording, if you’re ready, or work on more songs.” He places his glass down, keeping his gaze on the tablecloth. “If I’m being honest, we came farther than I thought we would. Still, if we want to go for an album, there’s more work to be done.”

“You think we could do a full album?”

In their initial meeting, they never clarified what kind of a collaboration project this would be. Seunghyun has left it very open, in order to give Jiyong room to back out, or work only as far as he’s comfortable.

He nods. “I think we could.” He shifts, lifts his leg onto the chair, tucking his ankle under his thigh. “But if I’m being honest, I’m a little worn out on the writing. Slipping back into a blockade, just a little,” he mutters, making sure not to look at Minho even for a second.

He only nods, doesn’t ask Jiyong any questions. “I’ll continue to send you what I have and we can work through some more ideas.”

Jiyong nods a few times to himself, before daring to look up. Minho is peacefully sipping his drink.

Working with Minho so far has been much less stressful than he’d anticipated. In fact, he might not even be opposed to continuing the work.

“Well, Minho, I’m excited to hear your voice. The next time we see each will be at my home studio.”

Something that awfully resembles a sigh of relief escapes Minho’s lips. Jiyong only can’t determine what the relief is about.

“What is it?” He questions.

“What? Oh, nothing.” Minho pauses, then gives a little shrug. “ _Home studio_ just sounds so impressive. If I’d started off as any other rookie I would’ve had to wait my turn at the record label. Probably would have gotten the worst times to use it.”

This can’t be the answer to Jiyong’s question. But perhaps he was wrong about it being a sigh of relief in the first place.

Jiyong smiles. “Yes, I suppose that’s another thing. Seunghyun wouldn’t have given me to you if he didn’t think you were extraordinary.”

This time, Minho can’t hide his self-satisfied smile.

* * *

_“Holy shit.”_

Jiyong turns around to look at his guest.

Minho’s lips are slightly parted as he takes a look around the house, and he looks so small and out of place. His hand grips the strap of his bag, the bag that he lets hang far too low. He stands in the hallway in his baggy jeans, lumpy white sleeveless shirt and his signature jacket, socked feet shuffling awkwardly. He looks lost.

Jiyong’s shoulders shake with a quiet giggle. “I think it’s too bright. I’m not feeling the white furniture, I’ll have to redecorate.”

“Uh-huh,” is the only thing Minho says.

On their way up the stairs, Minho mutters, “I thought it would be better once we started working in a studio, but this is just as bad,” loudly enough for Jiyong not to be able to determine whether he was supposed to hear it or not.

“Just as bad as what?” He asks, leading Minho through the door to his studio.

“Just as bad as going out every time,” Minho clarifies after a moment of hesitation.

Jiyong ungracefully drops his butt into his leather chair, and it spins with the impact. “Does going out bother you? You could have said something earlier.”

“It doesn’t _bother_ me, it’s just… unnecessary expenses.” Minho looks around, still gripping at his bag, uncertain where to place his own butt.

“But it’s my money,” Jiyong pushes an identical chair towards Minho, “So it shouldn’t bother you.”

Minho slowly, very carefully sits down, on the edge of the leather seat. He places his bag in his lap and holds it close. “That’s the problem, isn’t it. You spend it on me as well.”

Jiyong sits up, tilts his head a little. He puts his feet on the chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I’m sorry, you’re a provincial student who lives in a dorm, I somehow assumed you were broke.”

Minho bows his head, beginning to play with the zipper of his bag. That noise, that noise is what will bring Jiyong to insanity one day.

“No, no, I _am_ broke. But I still feel bad, being spent money on.”

Jiyong opens his arms. “I don’t see the problem here. I have money. You don’t have that much of it, _yet_. I’m the one dragging you to all my favourite places that cater to my budget. It’s only fair for me to pay, don’t you think?”

Minho nods, but he purses his lips in that way that he does. “Sure—I guess, it’s just that, you don’t have to spend that much money. We can just work here from now on.” Then he adds, quietly, “Even though it looks like a museum.”

Jiyong gives a little huff, the closest thing to a genuine laugh he’s mustered in a while. “I’d really like you to show me where to go that you don’t need to spend so much money.”

“Nothing fancy for sure,” Minho says. “But I can show you where my friends and I like to hang out.”

Jiyong doesn’t think it will really happen. Not with the way he was exhausted every day. But it did sound like a lovely idea. “I’d like that.”

There was the slightest quiver in Minho’s voice on the first try, but that was to be expected. He insists on going again. And again. And again. Jiyong doesn’t mind. He’s somewhat of a perfectionist himself. More than anything, he focuses on Minho’s voice.

It’s different than in the song that has managed to put Jiyong to sleep. It’s an entirely different style, however it makes perfect sense. Jiyong can’t imagine a song like ‘Body’ being sung with such gentleness.

“What?” Minho says into the mic.

His voice derails Jiyong’s train of thought. His gaze snaps up and for a second he’s still looking at Minho with traces of confusion on his face. Minho stares back at him from behind the glass, hands on his hips, expecting an answer.

“Nothing. I zoned out.” Jiyong pauses. “I was thinking about your style change from the demos Seunghyun sent me. That was intentional?”

Minho nods. “Did you want me to do something different?”

Jiyong huffs. Keeping a straight face he leans in and says, “Yes, and I was waiting for our last take to tell you that. Now I’ll make you do forty more.”

Minho cracks his first smile since they began recording. Not only because his song is about missing having sex with one’s ex, therefore giving him little reasons to smile while recording, but also because he was that anxious. He left his jacket draped over the leather chair, but he found other things to fidget with. His rings, his pockets, the rim of his shirt, his lip piercing. He was very resourceful.

Minho leaves the headphones and walks out of the booth. He sits down just as carefully as the first time, on the edge of the seat.

“Play it back,” he says as he rolls the chair forward.

Minho keeps his head down while listening. Jiyong lets him be. He himself is immersed in the song, already getting ideas about the future of this track.

When it ends, he spins his chair to face Minho.

“How does that sound?”

Minho nods. “Like a future hit.”

“Yup, if I tweak it enough this could be the future anthem for lonely recent singles.”

Minho grimaces, but a smile slips past that expression. “Oh, shut up.”

As their laughter dies, out Minho clears his throat a little.

Jiyong pays it no mind. He gets up from his seat, stretches, takes a sip of his drink. He’s thinking of proposing a break before his turn.

But Minho is tirelessly clicking his rings against the armrest, head bowed, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Jiyong leans against the wall, his glass in his hand, and waits for Minho to speak.

He clears his throat again and begins, “But actually… I was hoping to produce my own songs.”

Jiyong raises his eyebrows. At the same time he’s surprised by Minho’s boldness, and isn’t surprised by the request at all. He feared something like this would happen.

“Well actually, that’s the part of the job I take on. It’s kind of my thing,” he says calmly.

“Right, of course,” Minho shifts just a little and looks up. Still uneasy, still tapping his fingers against the armrest. Not very convincing. “But it could be my thing too.”

Jiyong grips his glass until his knuckles go white. He nods a few times. “No, of course, why not. Because of your experience. Because you produced all those songs that…” He trails off and looks at the ceiling as if thinking. “Wait.” He looks back at Minho. “No you didn’t. You’re a college student majoring in Fine Arts. Why should I entrust you with this again?"

Minho balls his fist and starts bouncing his leg. “I _know_ I can do it, if you just let me. With your help—”

Jiyong sighs. “Minho, when Seunghyun put you forward I didn’t ask him who you were, I didn’t ask him about your experience or education. I only asked if you were talented. He said yes. You proved that to be true. And now you’re working with me, so why don’t you let me do my job?”

Minho clenches his jaw, and for a moment that feels like an eternity, just glares at Jiyong. It seems like he’ll say something, something stupid, and Jiyong is somehow so curious to hear what Minho would be able to tell him.

But in the end, he only says, “ _I’m_ not working with _you_. We’re working _together_. I know it’s difficult to grasp the concept since you’ve always worked on your own. I simply don’t like the idea of someone else executing my vision for me. I thought you of all people would understand.”

Any kind of hint of even the most sarcastic smile is swept from Jiyong’s face. “ _No_ ,” he pronounces each syllable as if talking to a child.

And he moves on immediately, “Did you want to grab a snack before we keep going?”

“No,” Minho answers, almost with just as much intensity as Jiyong’s _no_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Mr. Kwon,_
> 
> _I hope you don’t mind me tweaking my own song despite your warnings. Hopefully it meets your standards._
> 
> _Song Minho_

Jiyong was surprised by Minho’s demeanour as they’d continued working. It was... completely normal. He’d expected Minho to sulk or show at least faint signs of irritation, but there were none.

Furthermore, Minho remained coolly professional. Jiyong was somewhat used to being praised, you see. Not enough to give him a huge ego, not if you ask him anyway, but enough for it to be odd when it isn’t happening.

The email that Jiyong receives from Minho somewhere throughout the night explains both of these, to Jiyong confusing points.

Jiyong squints at it after having just woken up. He’s thankful not to have been woken up by a call in the early morning, but he still needs to deal with Minho as soon as his eyes opened.

There’s an attachment named _future hit.mp3_. Jiyong frowns.

He mutters a _what the fuck_ as he reads through the email,

_Dear Mr. Kwon,_

_I hope you don’t mind me tweaking my own song despite your warnings. Hopefully it meets your standards._

_Song Minho_

That little shit.

Jiyong sighs, rolls onto his back and tosses his phone. It bounces off the mattress and settles a bit farther from his pillow.

The opening notes roll off from the speakers and fill the room. Jiyong closes his eyes. As soon as Minho’s voice is audible, Jiyong can picture him in the box, lips close to the mic, doing those little dances of his. It had taken him a while to start dancing when they’d been recording. The first few takes he’d been stiff, his voice had been uncertain too. But in time, he loosened up and Jiyong is now able to see him, clear as day; swaying his hips, with his thumb hooked to his belt loop.

Jiyong’s eyes snap open. The song is good. More importantly, it’s finished _and_ good.

Once the beat dies down, Jiyong grabs his phone and calls Minho. Lying on his back, he runs his free hand through his hair, and there’s just the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

When he answers, there is also a hint of a smile in Minho’s voice, _“Hello?”_

“You son of a bitch,” Jiyong chimes. “How did you do it?”

_“Well... Let’s just say you were right when you said that Mr. Choi likes me.”_

Jiyong presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and he smiles, just a little wider than he expected. “You’re saying that you went behind my back, with my best friend?”

_“Well—”_

“You two are so fucked,” through stifled laughter.

Minho doesn’t respond. Jiyong finds it amusing.

“The song is amazing, Minho.”

_“Thank you. I hope you’re reassured about my abilities.”_

Jiyong lets his arm drop above his head, onto the pillow. “There’s such a thing as beginner’s luck. We’ll see what you do with that other thing you’re working on.”

Minho chuckles and Jiyong’s eyes slide shut. “Just let me ask you something else.”

_“What is it?”_

“When did you do this?”

_“Overnight. Mr. Choi had a very quick response, I think he doesn’t sleep. Either way, he agreed that it would be funny to set up this surprise for you.”_

“Alright, alright, you two caught me. But Minho?”

_“Yeah..?”_

“Don’t let me catch you working overnight again. Or plotting behind my back.”

Jiyong can nearly picture Minho standing up straight and saluting. _“Understood.”_

* * *

He needs to catch up with Minho. The drafts for Minho’s next song are already promising, meanwhile Jiyong doesn’t have another idea.

Then again, while he might not have an idea, he does have… something.

Jiyong has an old inscription buried in the bottom drawer of his desk, under many filled notebooks and crumbled papers. Years ago, when he’d written it, there had been something holding him back from throwing it away. The piece of paper sits there still, like a timed bomb waiting to go off.

This piece of writing is a skeleton in the closet that Jiyong isn’t ready to take out yet.

Therefore, he is in need of something completely new. He doesn’t want to recycle old verses.

He lies on his beige couch, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. His hand keeps twitching, grabbing his phone, and tossing it back onto the couch.

The feeling is a nagging one, the need to just talk.

After days of the same routine, a tiresome cycle that no one is a part of, one starts to feel lonely. After days of oversleeping, having no appetite or energy to cook, lying around until the evening and only then remembering to try and get some work done, ultimately failing and forcing himself to eat whatever he can find. After days spent in a room with shut blinds and filled with smoke, Jiyong feels like he will certainly go insane.

Unfortunately it isn’t as easy as picking up the phone and calling someone. With every single name on the screen there is something that prevents him from calling.

He doesn’t want to speak to Minho. They are not nearly close enough for Jiyong to let him have any insight into this side of his life.

He can’t talk to Seunghyun because that man has enough on his plate as is. He’s already way too involved with Jiyong’s mental instability, and quite frankly it’s uncomfortable for everyone. Because no matter what a great friend Seunghyun is, Jiyong knows he can’t help.

He wouldn’t dare impose on Youngbae and Hyorin again. They’re focused on their careers, too busy leading their own lives to fix someone who is broken beyond repair.

He doesn’t have it in him to face Daesung. He worries too much, and takes on responsibility too easily, but once he realizes that there’s nothing he can do, he is quick to feel dejected. Jiyong doesn’t want his pity.

And that would be all of his closest friends. The only people who would potentially be allowed to be close to Jiyong when he’s at his worst, all stricken out.

Except for…

Jiyong sits up, staring at the name on his screen.

He can’t say things were very bad the last time they’d spoken, but she certainly wasn’t happy with him. Not only that, but he had acted like quite the asshole.

He isn’t sure why she would answer. Why she would be willing to talk at all.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

He dials the number.

Falling back onto the couch, Jiyong shuts his eyes tight like one does when expecting something terrible or unpleasant to happen to them.

_“Well this is a surprise,”_ Chaerin’s voice is icy.

“Hi… I know, I’m—sorry for calling out of the blue. I think—” he pauses. He figures, since he’s calling after such a long time, he shouldn’t start off with his own needs and wishes. “How’ve you been?”

_“Cut the crap, Jiyong. You need something, don’t you?”_

Harsh. But Chaerin isn’t someone easily tricked.

“Okay, okay, you caught me. I don’t need anything that would cost you too much, although I suppose that depends on the perspective.” He sighs. “I just need some company.”

Jiyong tries to make his breathing less audible in the silence that occurs. He doesn’t want Chaerin to hear it.

_“Yeah, it must be really bad if you called first,”_ she says.

Jiyong opens his eyes only to roll them. Maybe this wasn’t worth it, maybe asking for help is overrated. Maybe it’s safer to wallow in self-imposed isolation.

And then, _“But you’re lucky that I’ve missed your stupid ass. I’ll be there in a few, and don’t expect me to drive home at some ungodly hour. You better get my pillow ready.”_

Jiyong is in a state of disbelief. He huffs, his lips stretch in a relieved smile. “You’ve got it. And bring me something to eat, my kitchen is empty.”

“I don’t do your grocery shopping for you, Kwon Jiyong,” Chaerin says, walking in with grocery bags.

Jiyong bows his head, feigning remorse. “My apologies. But thank you for the effort.”

He helps her unpack. Quietly doing domestic tasks with someone is oddly soothing. However, after the task is done, the silence becomes overbearing.

Jiyong pours both of them a drink. They move to the living room. Jiyong lights a cigarette.

“Do we do small talk?” Chaerin asks.

“We haven’t seen each other in a while. I want to know how you’re doing,” Jiyong says.

She sighs. She helps herself to Jiyong’s cigarettes. “I’m good, I guess. Everything’s more or less the same, but I like that.”

Jiyong hands her the lighter. He wonders if it’s alright to ask. But before he gets to think about it too much, the sentence is already leaving his mouth, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Chaerin’s eyebrows shoot up and she takes a sip of her drink. “Absolutely not.” She pauses. She stares ahead, a look that Jiyong knows well. Contemplating. “I met someone though.”

Jiyong tilts his head, resting it on the couch. “Do tell.”

Chaerin shakes her head. “We met at some bar and nothing really happened other than we exchanged numbers. We’ve been texting, but I doubt it’ll be anything serious. Haven’t had our first date yet.”

Jiyong nods. “That’s fair. At least have some fun if you can.”

The half smile Chaerin gives him has a little bitterness to it. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Jiyong plays dumb.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“My therapist.”

Chaerin laughs. Jiyong doesn’t. He chugs his drink down. That joke may have been funnier if he wasn’t lying, if a year ago wasn’t the last time he’s gone to therapy.

“Fine, point taken. How’s that going though?”

Jiyong curses himself and his wit, he curses his mouth that is always faster than his brain. He doesn’t want to talk about this. If he hadn’t given that snarky and brilliant yet horribly timed response, Chaerin wouldn’t have asked.

“Good,” he says. He desperately needs a change of subject. “Got any schedules anytime soon?”

Chaerin watched him for a moment. She leans over to shake ash off her cigarette into the ashtray. To Jiyong’s relief, she doesn’t try to return to the topic of therapy. “I’m taking a little break. However…”

Their eyes meet. Chaerin smiles and shifts on the couch so that she’s facing Jiyong. “I shouldn’t talk about this, but I might be working on a clothing line.”

Jiyong grins and he leans in, lightly punching her shoulder. “Look at you! That’s amazing! You gonna call me to model?”

Chaerin raised an eyebrow, lips pressed into an apologetic smile. “It would be female clothing.”

“So?”

“You’re right, that’s never stopped you,” Chaerin says.

Jiyong grins. “Well, what else can you tell me about the line?”

“You’ll have to find out just like everyone else,” Chaerin hums.

“So you don’t know either.”

Chaerin makes a face at him. They burst out laughing.

Jiyong runs a hand through his hair and he fixes his gaze on Chaerin. “Since we’re talking about secret projects…”

Chaerin raises her eyebrows quizzically.

“I’m working on an album. At least I think that’s what it’ll be.”

Chaerin doesn’t say anything. When Jiyong dares to look at her, he sees her smiling. “You’re coming back,” she says. Jiyong can’t place whether it’s disbelief, relief, excitement or all three that he hears in her voice.

He only knows that her smile is bright.

Jiyong lets his head fall back. He looks at the ceiling and thinks, _fuck it_ , if there's one reason to go through with all of this, it's for her smile.

He straightens up, looks at Chaerin, attempting to give a smile of his own. “I guess I am.” Before sipping once more, he adds, “Not alone though.”

Chaerin's eyes widen in an expression that's both exaggerated and holds sincere surprise. “You? Working with someone?”

“Yup,” Jiyong pops the _p_.

“One collab, or?”

“The whole thing.”

“No way.”

Jiyong shakes his head. “That's what I thought too. Turns out…” He suddenly leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his glass with both hands. “It was all Seunghyun's idea. He tried to cushion it, but basically he didn't believe I could do it on my own. And yet he wanted me to return. So that’s what he came up with, working with someone. Even though he knew I'd _hate_ it.” This is when Jiyong's voice is the loudest. It's when his voice is the most agitated, when his arms are most tense, when his knuckles are white with how hard he's gripping the glass.

And that's when he unravels, when his shoulders fall and his expression of anger melts. That's when his voice quiets down. “It works.” Jiyong lifts one hand to his face, shutting his eyes tightly. He mutters a frustrated, _“Fuck.”_

“Hey, it's alright.” Jiyong feels the movement on his right. He feels Chaerin's thigh pressing to his side, her hand on his back. “I'm proud of you. This is a good thing, you know? It’s normal for working to be difficult at this time and I’m happy you accepted the help.”

Jiyong huffs. He doesn’t need to say anything for Chaerin to understand.

“You’re not weak for it, Jiyong,” she says.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Jiyong says through his teeth.

Chaerin moves her hand, gently smacking him up the head. “Don’t be like that. This is the most I’ve heard you talk since… Well. In a long time.”

“I can talk. Just not about this.” Jiyong sits back, leans against Chaerin as if she were a couch cushion. “Tell me something about yourself again.” He closes his eyes. “Anything.”

And Chaerin does. Because she wants to trust Jiyong that he knows what he needs.

Eventually however, she urges him to go to bed. And maybe because she’s so persuasive, he agrees.

Chaerin sleeps in a silk night dress that reaches down to her thigh. Jiyong sleeps in a large shirt. They share his bed, like they have many times before. They haven’t done that in over a year, and it gets Jiyong down, just a little, but he’s just happy to have her by his side again.

For the first time in a long time, Jiyong wakes up feeling rested. Not very well rested, it could definitely be much better, but he’s grateful at least that his head isn’t filled with cotton and that his eyes aren’t glued shut. He’s grateful for no infernal dream. Opening his eyes, Jiyong hopes to see Chaerin, the person who he has to thank for feeling better, even if temporarily.

But she’s nowhere to be seen.

He sits up, rubs his eyes and looks around the room. He’s ready to go looking, when she walks in. She’s happy to see him awake it seems, judging by the bright smile she gives him.

“Great! I was afraid I’d have to wake you up. Let’s go get breakfast.”

Jiyong sighs, rubs his eyes again. “I can’t. I still have a wholeass song to write.”

“Hey. Did you call me or did you not? You’re in my care now and I decided that it’ll do you good to get out a little.” She stretches out her arms, beckons him once. “Come on, up. It’ll be fun. Allow yourself to take your mind off of work for a little while and I promise I’ll have you home in time for you to keep at it.”

Jiyong watches her, slumped over, unimpressed and limp. When he woke up rested, he didn’t have an outing in mind. He just thought he’d preserve the energy.

But in reality, there’s no turning down Chaerin. And so he takes her hands, lets her lift him off the bed.

* * *

Chaerin keeps him busy the entire day. It’s somewhat frustrating having someone who knows you so well. Helpful at times, but at the moment, so horribly frustrating. She knows exactly how to work her way around getting his mind off of what has been eating away at him.

By the end of the day, he’s ready to try again.

* * *

_“It’s…”_

“A masterpiece, that’s what it is,” Jiyong finishes the sentence for him. He didn’t expect to be so pleased with his own work, but he ought to be after the time he spent on it. The entire night, most of the morning, and the time it took to edit and wait for Minho’s response.

He loves most of what he’s created in the past. But this is so much more like him, just the kind of _fuck you_ he’s been trying to tell the world for so long.

He already has a taunting melody in his head, accompanying the defiant lyrics.

_“Bold is the word I would’ve used,”_ Minho says and the melody stops playing.

Jiyong outstretches his arm in a welcoming gesture that Minho can’t see over the phone. “Bold is my middle name, isn’t it?”

_“I suppose so,”_ Minho says. And after the slightest moment of hesitation that sticks out like a sore thumb, he adds, _“I like it.”_

“Alright, what’s up. Spit it out.”

_“It just… doesn’t fit the theme of the rest of the album.”_

Jiyong huffs. “That’s a flimsy excuse you’re using instead of telling me what’s really wrong. You know very well our album doesn’t have a theme or a concept.”

_“Maybe I’m still looking at it from my perspective. You know—first album, writing about what’s safe, that sort of thing.”_

Jiyong stands in front of his full-length window and stares out of it, lips pressed together. “Truly, you are. Don’t worry about it, no one will be surprised if _I_ get rude.”

Jiyong thought that the conversation was done, that the song called Middle Fingers Up will go into the album without further discussion.

When he receives a call from Seunghyun, he can’t say he’s very happy.

Seunghyun explains to him that it wouldn’t be good for Minho to have such a song on his first album. That it’s too much. That he can always save it for a different project.

And all the while Jiyong only thinks about how _Minho should have fucking told him all of this himself._

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jiyong says, “But how do you even know about the song?”

There’s a sigh on Seunghyun’s end of the line. _“Minho told me. He wanted me to talk to you. Jiyong—”_

“Uh-uh. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and dials Minho’s number.

As soon as Minho picks up, Jiyong gets to the point,

“Hello, darling. Care to tell me why Seunghyun just called me to talk about my song?”

Minho doesn’t respond. Jiyong is lacking in patience. He continues, “We talked. Did we not talk, Minho?”

_“We did,”_ Minho mutters.

“Did you not tell me that it was okay?”

Once again, no response.

There’s that familiar twitch in Jiyong’s arm and this time he does nothing to repress the outburst. He slams his fist against the nearest flat surface which turns out to be a wall.

“Did you!?”

_“I didn’t know how to say it,”_ Minho stutters. _“It’s—difficult talking to you.”_

“Oh really? Well, it’s equally as difficult talking to—let alone working with—someone who’s fucking dishonest and a fucking coward! What did I tell you when you went behind my back? Did I not tell you never to do it again!?”

_“I’m sorry—”_ It strikes Jiyong that the noise that cuts off Minho’s sentence is the sound of his breathing. Minho is beginning to hyperventilate.

This, hearing him choke on his own breaths, cuts Jiyong’s anger short. He swallows. “...You okay?”

_“I’m sorry,”_ Minho chokes out. _“Can I call you back? I’m so sorry—”_

“Of course you can. It’s fine, Minho.”

Jiyong isn’t sure if Minho even heard his reassurance because in that moment he hung up.

Jiyong curses himself as he paces his living room, waiting. Why did he get so angry? He knows that Minho is an anxious person, why did he go off like that?

Jiyong stops, staring ahead of himself.

He begins to recall all the mandatory educational presentations he’s been forced to attend. _Long-term drug abuse may cause anger issues and violent outbursts._

He’s done his best to suppress the memories of rehab, but sometimes they surface. Every time he shows a symptom, they resurface.

It doesn’t make him any less angry. It only redirects the rage towards himself.

While he waits, he goes to the kitchen to get an ice pack for his hand.

His phone rings and Jiyong practically jumps to answer. “Minho?”

_“I’m sorry,”_ he says again, much more calmly this time. _“I should have had the guts to talk to you openly. I should have gotten over my discomfort. I liked your song, I did, I was just worried about how it fit into our album. Mr. Choi then thought it was also inappropriate… I’m sorry for creating this situation for you.”_

Jiyong tries to remember some exercises for calming down his anger, and when he finds none, he tries to apply the exercises he’s learned for dealing with anxiety to this situation. He breathes. “It’s fine, kid. I’m—I got too angry with you, I should have understood how you felt. Are you okay?”

_“Oh… Yeah, I’m fine.”_

“Must be why it’s difficult talking to me, huh?” Jiyong lets out a bitter laugh.

Minho laughs too, nervously.

Jiyong clears his throat. “I’m sorry for snapping.”

_“It’s fine… I still want to make it up to you. I’d like to take you out for street food, if you’re free. Remember, you once asked me what’s there to do that…”_

“...that doesn’t require much money,” Jiyong finishes the sentence, recalling their conversation in Jiyong’s studio. “Yeah, I remember.”

_“We can talk face to face that way.”_

Jiyong lets out a breath. “I’d love that.”

* * *

“I’m sorry about your song…” Minho mutters.

The two of them are walking, side by side, down a quiet street in Minho’s neighbourhood. It isn’t somewhere Jiyong would be caught dead hanging out, but this was all about new experiences.

Jiyong shrugs. “I can always save it for a different project. It’s my problem, so don’t apologize.”

Minho nods. “And, um… What are you going to do for this project?”

“Well… I have no idea.”

“Oh…” Through laughter, Minho adds, “I really feel bad now.”

The corner of Jiyong’s mouth quirks up. “Don’t feel bad. I’m just burned out.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to do anything,” Minho says carefully. “Remember what we talked about, nothing is set in stone. We don’t have to make a full album, we’ll just see what happens.”

Jiyong raises his eyebrows. “Do you have another song?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Jiyong opens his arms in a gesture that’s supposed to say everything. “I don’t have to use everything I have,” Minho insists.

Jiyong shakes his head. “We started it this way, so we’re doing a full album. Don’t encourage my whinging.”

“It’s not whinging. Creative block is a bitch. It’s okay to take your time, you know.”

Jiyong gives a forced smile. “Thank you. I hope… I hope I can figure something out.”

“I’m always here to help.”

Jiyong can’t take this conversation anymore. “Tell me about something,” he says.

“Like what?” Minho asks.

“I don’t know.” Jiyong takes out his cigarettes, lights one up and offers one to Minho. The younger shakes his head politely. “Like… School? There’s always something to say about that. Although you might have to forgive me for not having any insight on the matter, I finished college four years ago.”

The corner of Minho’s lips quirks up. “You’re forgiven.”

And with that Minho goes off about his favourite subject down at the academy. He starts off hesitantly, with pauses and glances Jiyong’s way to check if he’s rambling too much. It’s a little frustrating, seeing as Minho is so knowledgeable about a topic that Jiyong cares a lot about, yet he keeps interrupting himself out of insecurity.

At some point however, Jiyong nodded and told him to go on enough times to make Minho realize that he doesn’t need to stop and check if Jiyong is still interested in the story. And once the topic derails from the confinements of Minho’s academic expertise, Jiyong is able to join in on the conversation.

At some point the conversation derails into more mundane territories, which is when Minho mentions how much he misses his cat, Johnny. There’s something very endearing in the way Minho talks about her, although Jiyong can’t help but note how Minho doesn’t mention missing the rest of his family, or even wanting to go visit.

Jiyong decides not to pry. He understands complicated family dynamics.

This is how they pass the time until Minho takes a turn into a poorly lit street, most of its light sources coming from the larger one it opens up to on the far end. There is just one little shop with a window for ordering food and a few standing tables nearby on the sidewalk.

Their conversation cuts short as Minho turns around, walking backwards towards the window. “You need to try the tteokbokki, it’s my favourite.”

Jiyong shrugs in agreement. He’s enjoyed this outing so far, Minho has been doing a good job of distracting him. Tonight he doesn’t care what he puts into his stomach.

Minho spins around and comes to a halt in front of the window, resting his forearms on the bar. He asks Jiyong if he wants anything to drink, orders, begins some small talk with the person working there who appears to be his friend.

Jiyong stands to the side, looking to the left at the river of people, students and tourists mostly, flowing by on the main street.

Eventually Minho parts ways with the counter and approaches one of the tall tables on the sidewalk. He puts one plate of tteokbokki on it and goes back for the drinks. Jiyong walks over the table and rests his forearms onto the red surface. He stares at the plate, at the steam rising from it into the air. He tries to ignore Minho’s friend from the window and the way his gaze lingers.

When he hears the can pop open, with the hissing sound of the bubbles, Jiyong realizes that there is only one plate, only one portion. He straightens up, grabs a plastic fork.

“Do we share?”

Minho shakes his head.

“I thought it was your favourite,” Jiyong says.

Minho drinks from his can. He puts it on the table and holds it with both hands, looking down through the little hole as if it holds all the secrets of the universe. “Yeah, that’s why it always ruins my diet.”

Jiyong frowns. “What diet?”

Minho shrugs. “Just trying to lose some weight for my debut.”

Something pierces Jiyong’s gut. Red fills his vision, alarms going off in his head. He remembers, suddenly, every time Minho has turned down an offer to be treated to a meal. He remembers their first meeting at the Japanese restaurant, how reluctant Minho had been to order anything. At the time Jiyong thought that money was the problem, but now he realizes there was much more to it.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply. “It will backfire, you’ll fuck yourself up unnecessarily. Trust me on this.”

“I’m making sure to stay healthy. Don’t worry.”

Jiyong stares at Minho. He’s lying. Or rather, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Jiyong too thought that he had everything under control when he was starting his journey that eventually landed him in a hospital.

But it’s not his job to be anyone’s babysitter or nurse. Quite frankly, he has enough shit on his plate, he doesn’t need anyone else’s.

He shrugs. “Alright. Your problem. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And he starts eating the tteokbokki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seunghyun places his palms flat on the table. “Because,” he speaks slowly. It’s driving Jiyong insane. “I’m worried that all of this might be too much for you.”
> 
> Jiyong stares at him. “Don’t say that. Not you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this time because I've been forgetting to update amidst my responsibilities.

The meeting was tedious, at least for Jiyong, who had heard this same talk a million times before. Minho, however, was all ears, eyes wide, nodding along to everything Seunghyun had to say. Jiyong couldn’t blame him, it would be his first time doing photoshoots, filming music videos, doing promotions… He was probably excited. And anxious, judging by the intensity with which he fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket.

It was kind of cute, really. Minho’s energy was the only refreshing part of the meeting.

And just when Jiyong is about to leave, glad that it’s all over, Seunghyun calls him back.

Jiyong stands in the doorway, taking a deep breath. Then he goes back inside, closing the door behind himself.

He doesn’t sit down, indicating that he wants this to be done quickly. “Yes?”

Seunghyun sits in his chair, observing Jiyong in a way that makes him want to disappear. Then, at last, he carefully says, “How are you doing?”

Jiyong blinks. “Splendid.”

“I’m serious, Jiyong. How’s your recovery going?”

There’s a stabbing sensation in Jiyong’s gut. He swallows. “Good. It’s going well. Why do you ask?”

Seunghyun places his palms flat on the table. “Because,” he speaks slowly. It’s driving Jiyong insane. “I’m worried that all of this might be too much for you.”

Jiyong stares at him. “Don’t say that. Not you.”

“I have to be careful. You know what happened the last time I pushed you…”

Jiyong shakes his head. “It’s not—It won’t be like that. I’m fine, Seunghyun—I promise. We’re doing this together.”

Seunghyun nods, holding Jiyong’s gaze. Jiyong caves and looks away.

“If it gets too much, tell me. If you need time or a break, tell me. Please.”

Jiyong nods.

“Promise me,” Seunghyun presses.

Jiyong meets his gaze. “I promise.”

Seunghyun exhales and leans back in his chair. He seems satisfied enough.

Jiyong expected Minho to be gone by the time he got out of Seunghyun’s office, but he’s still down in the parking lot when Jiyong gets out of the elevator.

Minho is standing by the car with the door open, but his friend is stopping him from getting in, holding his arm. They are discussing hastily.

As he approaches, Jiyong catches the last bit of Minho's sentence,

“... it would be stupid.”

Just as Minho says this, Jiyong unlocks his own car. The sound startles the two, as well as announcing Jiyong’s presence to them.

They whip their heads around, fix their wide eyes on Jiyong.

“What would be stupid?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Instead of responding, Minho and his friend—Jihoon, was it?—exchange looks. They proceed to look at each other, exchanging a series of subtle facial expressions. Are they communicating? Jiyong isn't quite sure.

This exchange ends with Jihoon nudging Minho forward, him stumbling towards Jiyong with an exasperated huff.

Minho lifts his gaze to Jiyong only briefly, before he looks away again. “A bunch of us are hanging out this weekend… my friends have been trying to convince me to invite you, but…”

“But?” Jiyong puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head.

Minho begins to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. He twists his lip ring with his tongue before speaking, “But… I didn't think you'd want to come along—I mean, you must be really busy and—I wouldn't want it to be a bother, you know?”

Jiyong's smile grows as Minho rambles, and perhaps the younger misunderstands it as mockery. He stops talking and bites down on his lip ring so hard the hole stretches.

“It wouldn't be stupid,” Jiyong says, and he does his very best not to sound like he's teasing, “I'd love to come along, just tell me where to be.”

For a moment Minho seems to be evaluating, trying to understand if Jiyong is messing with them. Jihoon doesn't have this problem. He's smiling a big, heart-shaped smile, bouncing a little where he stands.

But neither of them is giving Jiyong any information so he says, “Text me,” before waving and going over to his Lamborghini.

He wants to leave it at that, but he can’t help staying behind. He can’t help looking at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Minho and Jihoon high fiving each other before hopping into their own car.

* * *

Hanging out with college students, Jiyong can only assume there will be alcohol, perhaps even a blunt. Usually he wouldn’t turn alcohol down, not weed either, but he isn’t all that crazy about the street setting that he can expect from this kind of outing. He dislikes the thought of himself being unconscious or otherwise unaware out in the open like that.

Ever since Hong Kong every one of Jiyong’s outings has ended badly. Personally, Jiyong doesn’t care. For the longest time he hasn’t been all too concerned with his personal wellbeing, however it’s the thought of being seen that makes his stomach flip.

It’s the memory of Minho kneeling by his limp body in the bathroom and an expression that Jiyong can’t remember, it’s the very fact that he can’t remember most of that night, and many other nights, that makes his blood run cold.

And despite this, Jiyong takes a taxi. The excuse he chooses to put forward in his mind is that he doesn’t want to make the kids feel bad by flaunting his Lambo at such a casual hangout.

Making his approach, Jiyong squints at the group of five, trying to make out faces. He spots the blonde immediately and finds himself relaxing. Soon Minho notices Jiyong as well, smiling when he does.

He meets Jiyong halfway and stops. He drops his gaze, unsure what to do. Impatient to end this horribly awkward moment, Jiyong goes in for a quick half-hug.

They make their approach to the group together.

Minho takes a deep, bracing breath. “Everyone,” he calls for their attention, as if they weren’t already poorly hiding the fact that they’ve been looking the entire time. “This is Kwon Jiyong. Jiyong, this is Jihoon, Seungyoon, Jisoo and you’ve met Jiho.”

“Have I?” Jiyong blurts out, looking at the young man with a dirty blonde mullet and a beanie.

“Yeah, remember at the diner, after I…” Minho trails off.

The diner. The diner he was taken to after he had passed out in the bathroom. The diner that Minho took him to. That diner. That friend, the person Miho was with. Jiyong remembers now, and he can no longer hold Jiho’s gaze.

“Oh… That’s right.”

The rest of the group says ‘hi’s of their own. Jiyong’s gaze doesn’t linger on any one of them. He gives a tiny wave, not making any effort to break the silence that ensues.

Minho is the one to take on this burden. “Right—let’s go get the drinks, okay? And we gotta figure out where to go.”

The little group begins to move. The kids give in their suggestions, places like “the park behind the convenience store,” “the parking lot in my street” and so on.

Jiyong can’t even begin to guess which locations these are. His chest begins to tighten, he begins to regret having gone out at all.

He does his best to keep up with Minho. In a crazed moment, Jiyong thinks of clinging onto his sleeve as to not fall behind. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets while waiting for the thought to pass.

The group comes to a halt in front of a tiny convenience store. The blonde one, with pouty lips whose name Jiyong is pretty sure is Seungyoon and Minho start taking everyone’s orders. Beers, sojus, some snacks, cigarettes. Everyone gives money to the two. A wave of panic and sudden social dysfunction compels Jiyong to mutter that he doesn’t want anything. Minho gives him a look, but brushes it off and goes in with Seungyoon.

Jiyong stares after the two, the tightness in his chest spreading onto his throat. Without thinking, he steps in as well. He does want a drink, and he’s pretty sure his pack is halfway done, it won’t last through the night.

He sighs a breath of relief when he sees Minho and catches up to him.

“Oh hey,” he says with that bright smile of his. “I thought you didn’t want anything.”

“I changed my mind.”

Jiyong walks over slowly to where Seungyoon is picking out soju after soju, and he can’t help but notice that he’s picking the cheapest ones.

“This one’s better,” Jiyong says, tapping a bottle. The difference in prices is hardly noticeable.

Seungyoon’s shoulders tense, shrinking. “They won’t mind. We always drink this,” he says.

Jiyong watches him for a second longer, then says, “Take the other ones. Trust me.”

Seungyoon blinks. “But—”

Jiyong smiles. “Trust me.”

Hesitantly, Seungyoon complies.

At the cashier, Jiyong whips out his credit card, stepping in front of Minho and Seungyoon. However it is Minho’s displeased sigh that compels Jiyong to pay for the soju only. After they’re done, Jiyong gives Minho a quick explanation,

“I asked for the more expensive ones.”

Minho keeps frowning at him for a second longer before he sighs again and shrugs. “Sure… Thanks.”

Bags in hands, the three join the rest of the group and they start to move through the streets.

Jiyong has no idea where they’re going. Instead of that, he focuses on observing the gray buildings around him, the chipped paint and the graffiti.

“We’ve decided to go to the lot that overlooks the river,” Jisoo informs.

Minho smiles, a bounce appearing in his step. He turns to Jiyong with a bright smile.

“That’s my—it’s my favourite spot. It has a wonderful view of the other side. I’m glad we’re going there tonight.”

The corner of Jiyong’s lips tugs up at seeing Minho so excited. More than anything, Jiyong is happy that the younger is no longer frowning disapprovingly at him.

Jiyong mostly observes and listens to conversations on their way to the subway stop. The entire group consists of students of Korea National University of Arts, save for Jiyong. With slight variations in courses, their biggest conversational topic is school. It isn’t something Jiyong can participate in, not to mention he gets stressed just listening to them.

On the train, standing next to Minho, Jiyong says,

“I couldn’t imagine going back to college. My career started then too, like yours.” He shakes his head. “How do you survive?”

Minho laughs, but Jiyong notices a tone of irony in the sound. “No sleep and liters of coffee.”

Jiyong blinks. “That can’t be healthy.”

He knows it was a joke. He also knows that KNUA is one of the most demanding colleges in Seoul. He knows that juggling success in that school, as well as trying to kickstart a career, all while having a social life is terribly exhausting.

He’s been there. And he remembers how he started taking benzos “just to relax” while his career was picking up steam at the age of 20.

Yet Minho only shrugs. “We all get by.”

Jiyong doesn’t respond. It isn’t the time for a lecture, or for worrying. He averts his gaze.

He spots Jihoon and Jiho fighting for a seat that just got freed near them. Jiho is the one to place his ass on the chair, grinning victoriously at Jihoon. Jihoon crosses his arms and pouts. Then, much to Jiyong’s surprise, Jiho opens his arms and Jihoon happily sits on his lap. Jiho rests his head on Jihoon’s back. This makes Jiyong smile. The two spend the rest of the ride that way.

On their way, Jiyong mostly stays out of conversations, only listening, just like before. He thinks it’s alright, having only met the people and all. But soon he’s pulled into a conversation when Jiho addresses him,

“So… What’s it like to be on stage?”

Jiyong needs a second to think of a response. “…Thrilling. Terrifying. If you ask me, the real craziness goes on behind the scenes.”

“It must be really fun,” says Jisoo with a little smile on her face.

Jiyong chuckles. “Stressful is the word I would use. But yeah… fun too. Fascinating also. All those people working their butts off to put together a show where you’ll be the star… I’m grateful to everyone who’s ever worked with me on a show. But that’s a lot of people…. I couldn’t possibly give back enough.”

When Jiyong looks at the others, he’s met with little smiles and sparkling eyes. Is this the effect his words had on them? It’s… slightly confusing, but he decides to roll with it. He smiles back.

Jihoon then chimes in, “Tell us about your project! Minho won’t tell us _anything_ about working with you.”

Minho sighs and when Jiyong steals a glance at him, he sees that Minho is pouting the way he does when he’s upset. “I told you already, it’s to protect his privacy…”

He doesn’t know why, but this makes Jiyong smile. “Well, now you have my blessing. You still won’t be getting any spoilers though,” he tells Minho’s friends.

They give noises of protest, but Jiyong only shrugs, sticking by his decision.

Then they turn their attention to Minho, who still hasn’t given his response.

“Well what’s there to say?” Minho says. “You’re brilliant, we all know it.”

“You seriously don’t have any details?” Seungyoon asks in disbelief.

“He’s not telling you about his own progress,” Jiyong chimes in, smiling softly. “He’s wonderful, really gets into the music once he loosens up. He’ll be great on stage.”

Minho’s gaze snaps up at Jiyong. “You think so?”

Jiyong nods, he even reaches out to pat Minho on the back. The younger only smiles, averting his gaze.

“We’ve still got time, don’t worry. We’ll practice a lot as well.”

“You _will_ be great,” Jihoon says and Jiyong recognizes sparkling pride in his voice. “We all know it.”

“Only thanks to Jiyong,” Minho says. “He’s really helped me feel comfortable in my skills.”

“You’re too humble.”

There’s movement to Jiyong’s right and he realizes too late that Seungyoon has, jokingly, nudged Minho just a bit too hard. He trips, and to prevent him from falling over, Jiyong takes Minho by the arm. Minho holds onto the front of Jiyong’s shirt.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and quickly detaches himself from Minho.

Jiyong tries to ignore the fact that the rest of the group has stopped walking in order to observe. Jiyong, the very least, is used to having eyes on him.

But Minho isn’t. And it seems that the attention is making his cheeks crimson.

Climbing up a set of stairs, the little group emerges onto an elevated parking lot. Underneath, boat restaurants line the shore of the river Han. The opposite bank looks stunning from the spot, with its glistening lights in the dark.

“Welcome to our hangout,” Minho announces, standing next to Jiyong.

He breathes in the cool air and smiles. “I like it here.”

When they turn around, they see that their group has sat down in a circle. Jiho is fumbling with something in his lap, and when Jiyong approaches, he realizes that he’s rolling a spliff.

A lot of ideas pop up in his mind. Offering help, perhaps. Or protesting. After all, he’s the adult here.

But he finds that to be hypocritical.

Jiyong decides, in the end, to let it play out without intervention.

Even though Jiyong is sitting a little outside of the circle, the spliff gets handed to him. Without thinking, he accepts it. It’s weak, but he doesn’t complain, who knows who these kids’ supplier is and how much money they have to spend. He started off that way as well, he understands.

He takes a drag and passes the spliff to the next person, Seungyoon. Then he lights himself a cigarette.

Instead of taking a drag, Seungyoon turns to Jisoo and she proceeds to attempt to shotgun him. Jiyong watches in utter amusement, Seungyoon failing to take a drag while she holds the spliff, and at last her beginning to laugh, thereby dropping it.

This nearly has devastating consequences, luckily Seungyoon manages to catch it, although burning himself a little in the process.

“There’s an easier way to do that, if you’re not skilled enough,” Jiyong chimes, with the corner of his lips quirked up.

“We’re trying to acquire the skills,” Jisoo explains as Seungyoon slumps over defeatedly, picking up a pebble and throwing it over the railing.

“You should do that when you have more weed to waste,” Jihoon says, wisely so.

“Nah, we’ve got enough,” Jiho says, and he seems to look sideways at Jihoon as if trying to communicate something to him, something that the rest of the group isn’t supposed to understand.

“Oh—oh yeah!” Jihoon turns to Jiyong and humbly says, “You should show us, you know, as an elder.”

Jiyong coughs, his eyes water and the nicotine burns his throat. “ _Please_ just call me Jiyong.” Once he’s done choking he directs his gaze towards Seungyoon. “I don’t know, I haven’t done it in a while. Besides, I prefer the easier method.”

He passes his cigarette to Minho. When he turns towards Seungyoon, Jiho chimes in, “You should do it to Minho.”

Jiyong raises his eyebrows. He looks at Minho, who has been silent thus far.

Caught off guard, he straightens up, looks around the circle and says, “No—I’m good.”

“Come on,” Jihoon now says, nudging him forward. “You said you’ve never had it done to you, won’t it be great for an _expert_ to do it the first time?”

“Really, I’m good,” Minho insists, and Jiyong sees him and Jihoon doing that odd, wordless communication thing they did at the parking lot as well.

“I thought it was Seungyoon and Jisoo who were trying to learn,” Jiyong says, hoping to help Minho’s case a bit. Because as amusing as his flusteredness is, Jiyong doesn’t want Minho to do anything he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah, yeah, but they want to do it _together_. They could use a demonstration,” Jiho dismisses, taking Jiyong’s cigarette from Minho’s hands to free them.

And that’s how peer pressure puts them together. Jiyong finds it odd, how Minho’s friends can’t see just how tense he is—or are they simply choosing to ignore it? Maybe Jiyong is just getting old, his parent instinct kicking in with the worry that this anxiousness might escalate.

Jiyong turns towards Minho instead. He’s sitting cross legged with his fists on his knees and Jiyong decides that he’ll be the one to bridge the gap. He sits on his knees, opens his palm in order to be handed the spliff.

Minho breathes heavily. Jiyong can’t blame him. The entire group has their eyes on them, way too focused and expecting a spectacle.

“Hey,” Jiyong says. “Don’t look at them, look at me.”

Minho does. He holds his breath.

“All you have to do is inhale, there’s no way for you to mess this up.”

Minho’s smile is faint and nervous, and Jiyong gets closer yet.

“And we can always try again,” he adds. He doesn’t know how else to soothe Minho.

All Jiyong thinks about while he’s taking a drag is doing this quickly, anything to lessen Minho’s discomfort. He also thinks about that lip ring, wonders what it’ll feel like.

Jiyong presses his lips to Minho’s and blows smoke into Minho’s open mouth. He closes his eyes when they start to water. They break apart, and Minho still holds his breath, slowly exhaling through the nose, veily gray curling around him.

Jiyong scoots away slightly, back to his spot on the side. He doesn’t take his gaze off of Minho; Minho, who keeps his eyes closed, who fell back with his head ending up in Jiho’s lap, hands covering his face. Jiyong thinks, though he isn’t sure, that he sees Minho smiling underneath.

“You okay?” Jiyong asks, nudges Minho with his foot as if to check if he’s alive.

He doesn’t move at first. Then he nods, and nods again, and says, “A little dizzy.”

Jiyong retrieves his cigarette, fishes out his lighter because it has nearly gone out. “You’re welcome,” he says, with the cigarette between his teeth.

Only then does he think to look at the others. They’re stifling their laughter, huddled together around Jisoo, looking down at her phone.

“Did you take pictures?” Jiyong asks.

Jisoo’s gaze snaps up and everyone’s smile is wiped from their faces.

“I can delete them—”

Jiyong tries to suppress a smile, because he wants to scare the kids a little longer, but he fails. He exhales smoke their way. “Send them to me. But you better not post them anywhere, I’m serious. We’ll all be in big trouble if they appear anywhere on the internet. Seunghyun is sick and tired of clearing my public image.”

Jisoo still looks like she’s seen a ghost. But she gives a small salute and says, “Yes sir.”

Her friends laugh at her for this. Jiyong only shakes his head, smiling.

His gaze wanders from the sky, to the opposite bank of the Han river, to the concrete beneath him and eventually, back to Minho.

From then on, things unfold like any other hangout would. Drinking, chatting. It’s fun enough, but at some point Jiyong gets a little tired. He hasn’t had this much social interaction in quite a while, with new people no less. So, while everyone is busy with some hilarious story that Jihoon is telling, Jiyong quietly makes leave and approaches the railing. He sits down, swinging his arms over the lower bar, legs dangling off the edge.

Uneven footsteps approach from behind. Minho sways and Jiyong isn’t quick enough to help stabilize him, he’s already fallen on his ass. He laughs. He looks at Jiyong, a dazed smile plastered onto his lips.

“You’re not having fun?” Minho asks, with just the faintest trace of concern in his voice.

“No, I am,” Jiyong assures.

“Then what are you doing here alone?” Minho asks, eyes growing unfocused.

Jiyong stares across the river, at the opposite shore. He too lets his eyes go out of focus, the flickering light smudging in his vision. “I just needed a breather.” Ironic to say with his lungs full of nicotine, but true nonetheless.

Minho nods. He stares ahead.

“I’ve never been here,” Jiyong says, just to fill the silence that’s heavy between them. The music and chatter are loud enough behind them, but here, by this railing, their legs hanging off the edge, it seems to be deadly quiet.

“We come here often,” Minho says and Jiyong recalls him saying it a few times throughout the night. “I love this place.”

The silence settles once again and Jiyong wants it gone. As if reading his mind, Minho continues,

“I think the reason I love it so much is that…” He points across the river. “The walkway looks like it could be from any city on a river.”

Jiyong looks in the direction where Minho is pointing. It’s the lights that he had stared at and let smudge a second ago. He finds that Minho is right, especially with one’s vision clouded, the place does look quite generic.

“You can just pretend you’re not here,” Minho mumbles.

“You can pretend you’re in Budapest,” Jiyong says, because it’s the first city that popped into his mind. His personal favourite.

“Or Paris,” Minho says.

Something in his voice makes Jiyong look at him. Just as he expected, he sees that faint little smile on Minho’s lips, a smile that hides excitement and longing. He sees a spark in his eye, that Jiyong knows is so much more than the street lights reflecting in his pupils.

“You’ve been in Paris,” Minho says.

Jiyong nods. He has quite a history with the city. He’s been there four times while touring, and two times for Fashion Week. To Jiyong too, like so many, it used to be the place you dream of visiting whenever you think of any kind of travel. The dream city, the city of light, fashion, art, history and love.

He’d worked so hard to reach it, and once he finally did, he was already a full blown addict.

“What’s it like?” Minho asks.

Truth is, Jiyong doesn’t remember. When touring, and especially when visiting for Fashion Week, there simply isn’t much time for exploration. The little time he did have, Jiyong often spent in pain. He mostly remembers Charles de Gaulle and time spent in hotel rooms. He hardly remembers the performances. He remembers Fashion Week in bits and pieces.

But meeting Minho’s wide-eyed stare, the spark in his inflated pupils, expecting to hear something life-changing, Jiyong just wants to give him _something_. He thinks hard, trying to remember anything that isn’t absolutely dreadful.

He reaches out and pulls a tiny leaf from Minho’s hair. “One of the times we were there Seunghyun took me out for an evening walk,” he speaks quietly, eyes drifting to the smoke rising from his cigarette. “We walked along the Seine, reached the Eiffel Tower on foot.”

_“The Eiffel Tower,”_ Minho mutters, lips parted in awe.

Jiyong smiles. “It’s beautiful at night. It was closed when we reached it, but it’s magnificent enough from the ground. Or any point in the city, really.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and lets the smoke fill his lungs. He exhales towards the river Han, clouding his view of the opposite bank. “In the end we went somewhere to eat, the first place we could find that was still open.”

That’s Jiyong’s best memory from Paris. For Minho’s sake, he left out the nasty details. Like the fact that he was suffering from a horrible serotonin crash and crippling side effects of his last fix of amphetamine. That taking him outside was the last thing Seunghyun could think of to help with the depressive episode Jiyong had slammed himself into. That the meal he had in a little tavern near Mont Marte was the first he’d had in three days. That Seunghyun had to force him to eat.

When Jiyong looks at him again, he sees that Minho has closed his eyes. “That sounds nice,” he says, swaying from side to side. Jiyong isn’t sure if he should hold onto him.

“Yeah, it was,” he says and he sounds as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He used to be a good liar.

Minho opens his eyes. “I want to go to Paris,” he sighs.

“We can go together,” Jiyong blurts out.

Minho looks at him, a big loopy grin on his face. “You think so?”

Jiyong nods. “For sure. Once you make it big… and finish school…”

Minho closes his eyes again as if he’s imagining it. “Together in Paris,” he whispers. For a minute he doesn’t move. Then he announces, “I’m going to lie down.”

He doesn’t “lie down” so much as he lets himself tumble backwards, and Jiyong has to scramble to hold the back of his head so he doesn’t get hurt. Minho doesn’t seem to notice. As soon as his head touches the concrete, he’s out cold.

Jiyong hastily takes his hoodie off, folds it and puts it under Minho’s head. He stands, legs shaky, throws one last glance at the sleeping boy before he pads back to where everyone’s still sitting in a circle.

Jiyong crouches by Jiho and nudges him. “Minho passed out. Isn’t it a good idea to go home now…?”

Jiho is a little disoriented, but apparently less so than the other three. Jiyong is grateful for this.

He glances at his phone, squinting. The younger nods. “We—should. He needs some rest, yeah, yeah. It’s four am, our dorm will be open soon.”

With a bit of nudging and repeated statements, Jiho gets everyone to stand and start picking up their trash in preparation to leave. Jiyong helps out at first, but ultimately goes back to Minho’s side.

He isn’t sure what to do. He takes Minho by the shoulder and shakes him gently.

“Kid.”

No response. Jiyong sighs. He pokes Minho’s shoulder.

“Kid. Wake up. We gotta go.”

Jiyong shakes him some more, but it isn’t until he pokes Minho’s cheek that he starts to stir, letting out sleepy little noises.

“Yong,” he mumbles, squinting up at Jiyong.

“Yeah,” he speaks weakly. He clears his throat and continues, “You fell asleep. We need to get you back to your dorm.”

Minho blinks a few times. With Jiyong’s help he sits up and, moving slowly, looks around himself. “Oh—it’s yours isn’t it,” Minho mumbles timidly and picks the hoodie up. Before handing it to Jiyong he clumsily attempts to brush off pebbles and dirt.

“It’s okay,” Jiyong assures. He stands, puts the hoodie back on and offers Minho a hand. “Let’s go.”

Jiyong and Jiho support Minho while they walk, while Jihoon, Seungyoon and Jisoo seem to be doing well enough on their own.

On the train they find him a spot and he spends the ride snoozing.

“We can take it from here,” Jiho says when they reach their stop.

Jiyong shakes his head. “I’ll go with you. I wanna make sure—you all get home safely.”

Jiho is surprised only for a second. “Sure,” he mumbles.

Minho is more or less able to walk on his own after he wakes up. Jiho and Jiyong stay as moderators. Jisoo, Seungyoon and Jihoon have been able to since the beginning.

Jiyong is fascinated with the yellow building. From the outside, it looks like a hospital, or a school. From the inside, it once again looks like a hospital, or a hotel, but slightly dirtier. There is nothing visible to indicate uncleanliness, there is simply a creeping feeling of it as they pass through the halls.

Jiyong insisted on going upstairs with the others, to help with Minho in case he couldn’t handle climbing.

“Well, that’s them,” Jiho announces in front of a door. Seungyoon approaches and begins to fumble with the key.

Jiyong glances at the number. Then he raises his eyebrows at Jiho. “Them?”

“Yoon and Minho are staying here. The rest of us are from Seoul… You know, we got homes here.”

“Ah.”

Seungyoon tries to lead Minho into the room, but he wrings himself from the younger’s grasp and stumbles back towards Jiyong.

Before he even has the time to flinch, let alone protest, Minho’s arms are around Jiyong’s neck.

“Thank you for tonight,” he mumbles. “I’ll see you...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, only trots into his room.

Seungyoon stops at the doorway, giving a little bow. “Thank you for joining us tonight, Mr. Kwon—er, Jiyong.”

“It was my pleasure,” he says, still tingly from the hug.

He walks out with Jiho, Jihoon and Jisoo. They part ways at a crossing not too far from the dorms. They all thank him for his presence.

Jiyong walks towards the subway station, thinking about the gratitude he inspired in these kids. Thinking about the kiss, the hug. Thinking about Minho’s sleepy, drunken words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://loopys-sad-boy.tumblr.com/)   
>  [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, his phone rings when he’s already up, somewhere after noon.
> 
> _“Hi… I’d say good morning but it isn’t really morning, is it?” Minho says, lets out a nervous laugh._
> 
> Jiyong smiles at his antics. “No, it isn’t exactly morning. Only now getting up?”
> 
> _“Yeah…”_
> 
> There’s silence on their line. Jiyong doesn’t know why Minho called and he seems to have forgotten as well.
> 
> “And…?” Jiyong prompts.
> 
> _“Oh! I called to check up on you.”_

This time, his phone rings when he’s already up, somewhere after noon.

 _“Hi… I’d say good morning but it isn’t really morning, is it?”_ Minho says, lets out a nervous laugh.

Jiyong smiles at his antics. “No, it isn’t exactly morning. Only now getting up?”

_“Yeah…”_

There’s silence on their line. Jiyong doesn’t know why Minho called and he seems to have forgotten as well.

“And…?” Jiyong prompts.

_“Oh! I called to check up on you.”_

Jiyong can’t help but chuckle. “Check up on _me_?”

_“Yes… You know, if you’re hungover or something… I wanted to check if you had a good time and all.”_

Jiyong sits back in his chair, the corner of his lips quirked up. “Honestly Minho, I don’t think I’ve ever drank less since I was 17. I’m not hungover at all, in fact I’ve been up and productive.”

_“Oh, that’s great! Really… And um, yesterday? Was it okay?”_

Jiyong ducks his head, smile widening. “I also haven’t had that much fun since… Well. In a while. Thank you Minho, for inviting me. Your friends are great.”

Minho lets out what must be a sigh of relief. _“I’m glad. I was afraid that—”_

“No reason to be afraid, Minho. I had a blast. And you?”

 _“I did, yes. I’m just a little embarrassed about everything that happened by the end… Well, I don’t actually remember it much. Er, at all.”_ He sighs. _“Did I do or say something stupid…?”_

It appears as though he’s been thinking about this for a while. Jiyong’s heart tightens in his chest at the thought of Minho overthinking the matter, wondering if he has done something wrong.

“You didn’t,” Jiyong is quick to reassure. “We talked about Paris. It was lovely. I’m happy to have remembered it in a positive light for once.”

Minho doesn’t respond for a second, confused. When he speaks again, familiar relief is in his voice nonetheless. _“I’m glad. But I am sorry about everything else, Yoon told me about how you took me back and—”_

“Breathe Minho. You’re quite endearing when drunk. Heaven knows my friends carried me home more times than I can count. The last time was only a month ago! So don’t worry. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Minho mutters an “alright,” and then a “thank you.”

“Anytime. Actually, I’d love to go out with you again sometime, if you’ll have me.”

 _“Of course!”_ Minho clears his throat. _“My friends—we’d love that. Although exam season is approaching so our hangouts might be a little spaced out. I’ll let you know though.”_

Jiyong nods to himself. “Thank you. I take it we won’t be seeing each other today?” He adds.

_“Oh, um… No, I’m not feeling very well. Is that alright? I can come over if not—”_

“It’s fine, Minho. Take care of yourself, okay? We’ll see each other tomorrow if you’re free.”

Minho sighs another relieved breath. _“I’m free. Same time?”_

“I’ll see you then.”

* * *

Jiyong must admit, he likes work better this way. He likes it better when he isn’t yelling at Minho, chewing him out for things that, in hindsight, were likely the product of his anxious tendencies.

But he’s already apologized and Minho forgave him. Bringing it up again would do neither of them any good.

He likes this.

He’s on the floor, back against the couch, feet on the coffee table and cigarette in hand. Minho is on the couch, sitting on the backrest with his feet on the cushions.

He’s singing, reading his lyrics off a piece of paper.

Jiyong lets his head fall back onto the couch cushions, listening. Minho’s voice is so much more soothing and sweet in real life. He could fall asleep right there and then.

He moves from his previous position to be leaning against the coffee table and facing the couch. “Minho, this is great,” Jiyong says once he finishes.

“Thank you,” he answers bashfully.

“You might just be ready—if you have the time, we could go to the booth right now.”

Minho sinks into his hoodie, trying to hide his smile. “I’d love to, but I do have some plans tonight.” He swallows. “I’m wondering about your content though? Did you manage anything..?”

Jiyong runs his free hand through his hair. Does he want to open that can of worms? Does he want to bare himself like that?

He looks up at Minho through the smoke.

Then again… It might be exactly because they don’t know each other so well that it could possibly be easier to let Minho see his lyrics. It must be harder for someone who experienced that dark time with Jiyong, those two years ago.

Maybe… Maybe Minho should see it.

Jiyong lowers his gaze to the ashtray. He makes the task of putting out his cigarette way too long so that he doesn’t have to look at Minho again.

“I have… something. It’s pretty old. I wrote it right before my last tour.”

“Oh…” Minho mumbles.

“I’ve wanted to put it out, but… I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready.” Jiyong sighs.

“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to,” Minho is quick to say.

Jiyong shakes his head. “I think… I want you to see it, whether we put it on the album or not.” And with that he finally leaves the butt of his cigarette and stands up. He ventures to his room to fish out the paper where he’d last seen it. Hidden beneath piles upon piles of other papers and objects in the last drawer of his desk.

He walks back downstairs and gives the paper to Minho, still not looking at him.

It takes three cigarettes until Minho lifts his gaze from the paper and Jiyong isn’t sure whether that’s indicative of Minho’s way too slow reading or Jiyong’s own way too fast smoking.

Minho shakes his head, looking back at the paper. “It’s… It’s amazing. I don’t—” he clears his throat. “I don’t have anything to add… or subtract. It’s… perfect. It’s perfect.”

Jiyong huffs. “You know Minho, you were a rare person in my professional proximity who wasn’t a yes-man. Few are like you, Seunghyun, Youngbae… I was rather hoping you’d be honest.”

Minho looks him dead in the eye. “I was being honest.”

They stare at each other in a silent battle that Jiyong ultimately loses when he gazes down at the new cigarette he is lighting.

“Would you say it’s…” Jiyong pauses to search for the correct word but soon realizes that there is but one, “pathetic?”

“Pathetic? It’s _brilliant_. Pouring your heart out into a song like this. I wish I could do that.” He shakes his head again. “Crooked too. It’s a completely new style. Like you’re bringing to attention the fact that fame can’t bring you happiness—”

“Yeah,” Jiyong cuts him off. He dislikes the nails Minho is hitting, he dislikes how quick Minho is. “I wanted you to see that. You’re on your way to success…” He shrugs. “I guess I’m just worried. I want you to know what it’s really like.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Minho whispers. He opens his mouth to say something else, but decides against it.

And so they sit in silence. Jiyong has nothing else to say. Minho isn’t his responsibility. He hopes to be an example of a person who fell from grace. Who has everything and nothing at the same time.

But still, Minho is not his responsibility.

He shouldn’t care.

Minho is the first to speak, “What really happened in Hong Kong?”

Hong Kong. Everyone with a bit of a brain knew immediately that the story was fabricated. It makes sense that Minho would want closure, especially after what he has just read.

Jiyong shakes his head. “What happened? I overdosed, that’s what happened. Except that I overdosed on acid and speed, not prescribed drugs.”

“Mr. Choi just said that to keep you out of trouble,” Minho mumbles.

Jiyong nods. “Seunghyun just said that to keep me out of trouble.” He watches Minho’s face, attempting to decipher the expression. Shock? Perhaps disbelief. “Everyone knew I was an addict. Is it that surprising?”

“No, but… There was hardly any evidence, unless you were looking. And some of us really hoped it not to be true.”

There’s silence once again.

What did Minho mean by “some of us”? Does Jiyong even want to rack his brains over it now?

No. He doesn’t.

“I need more feedback,” he speaks. “It’s not that you’re not enough, it’s just the subject matter that’s a little…” He sighs. “I need to ask Youngbae and the others.”

Minho perks up. “You haven’t shown them…”

“I haven’t shown anyone.”

Minho frowns, covering his mouth with his hand. His gaze is that of intense contemplation.

* * * 

The entire drive there Jiyong is thinking about the last time they all got together.

It was some years ago. Jiyong’s strength was already fading and his health was deteriorating. Everyone at the table had to pretend that they weren’t noticing anything. It was the last time they got together before he started persistently rejecting invites to go out, until they stopped coming.

His heart is tight in his chest as he drives, all the way until he walks in and sees his friends sitting at their old table in the corner by the window. Only then can he sigh a breath of relief, letting the tension ooze out of his system.

He finally gets to watch them again, just chatting with one another. Youngbae and Seunghyun talking about work as always, Chaerin and Daesung discussing the philosophical school of the day. Seunghyun occasionally teasing Daesung, trying to kiss him. Him turning away because he never lets it happen after Seunghyun has smoked.

It’s all like it used to be.

“So why did you call us here?” Chaerin asks and the illusion cracks like a mirror.

Jiyong swallows, pieces of glass stuck in his throat. “I wanted to show you guys something. I need some feedback on a song.” He clears his throat, staring at the ashtray as he shakes off ash from his cigarette. “And I missed—this. All of you.”

There are soft smiles all around the table, but Jiyong doesn’t look. Chaerin squeezes his forearm gently.

“So what’s the song?” Youngbae asks, and Jiyong is infinitely grateful to him for moving the subject along so swiftly.

Jiyong pulls out the piece of paper and puts it in the middle of the round table. Seunghyun is the one to take it, and the other three scoot over to be able to see.

The same anxiousness rises from Jiyong’s stomach into his throat like when Minho was reading the lyrics. He waits, smokes through four more cigarettes as he waits for them to finish.

Daesung is blinking, his eyes glisten. Next to the anxiety, nausea starts to rise in Jiyong’s stomach. He did this. He never should have given them the lyrics to read.

“It’s wonderful,” Chaerin shoots. “Heartbreaking, but wonderful.”

“What were you thinking for the melody?” Youngbae questions, returning to his spot.

Jiyong blinks. “Something upbeat. Something like…” He hums the chorus, then shrugs.

Youngbae nods. “That’s it. An amazing contrast, Yong. This will be a great song.”

“When did you write this?” Daesung asks, having cleared his throat.

“Right before my last tour,” Jiyong mutters. Before anyone has the chance to ask, he adds, “I buried it. Didn’t think I was ready to put it out. I’m still not sure…”

“I don’t know about being ready,” Seunghyun hands Jiyong the paper back, “But this is what you need right now. This _exactly_.” He shakes his head. “Now that you’re back, there will be plenty of time for you to flip off the world—”

“I really like flipping the world off though,” Jiyong says, attempting to joke.

Seunghyun’s smile is weak. “Yes, I can imagine you do. But you’ve done that before, and you’ll do it again. Right now… When you’re returning… This is what you need. Some vulnerability.”

Jiyong is choking. He rubs his chest. “I don’t like being vulnerable. With you, it’s different. I don’t know if I’m ready for the world to hear this.”

Chaerin takes his wrist and pulls his hand away from his chest. She wraps an arm around his shoulders instead. “You’re the only one who can know that.”

Jiyong sniffles pathetically. “I guess so.”

Jiyong has had enough of silences. “We can, uh. We can go back to chatting now.” He throws on a smile.

* * *

Sleepless again.

Another nightmare.

Jiyong is hunched over the sink, staring at the whiteness. His own breathing sounds like a storm, his heart beats so fast his chest hurts. He can’t remember any of the breathing exercises, he can’t remember how to calm down.

Soon his knees buckle and he crumbles to the floor, hugging his knees and shoving his head between them.

He sobs.

He hasn’t cried since rehab, since he was in immense pain daily while being forced to get clean.

He wants to bang his head against a wall but he can’t move.

He breathes, he tries to count.

Hours could have passed before Jiyong is breathing again.

He lies on the tiles, letting the cold relax his body.

He stands, slowly. He exits the bathroom quickly, avoiding any encounters with any mirrors.

He goes to his room, grabs his phone, his cigarettes and lighter. From the kitchen he takes an ashtray and he makes his way towards the balcony.

There, Jiyong puts the ashtray on the barrier and dials a number.

_“Jiyong! What’s up?”_

“Hey, kid. I know you said you had plans tonight, but I wanted to tell you something. Do you have a second?”

 _“Of course,”_ Minho says. _“I’m just out with some friends. Give me a second.”_ The noise around him changes as he moves. Instead of being loud, the music becomes background noise on the other line.

Out with his friends, huh… “Did you drink?”

_“What? Uh… I did. Is that bad?”_

“How drunk are you?”

_“Pretty drunk… I’m sorry.”_

“Don’t apologize, it’s alright. It’s perfect.”

_“Okay… What did you wanna tell me?”_

“It’s about the song,” Jiyong says. He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Two years ago, I had everything. I achieved it even before that. But I was fucking miserable. I was so unhappy I wanted to die.

“When I was mandatorily seeing a psychiatrist, he told me I was sick. He told me that’s why I was feeling this way. But I can’t help blaming myself for being so damn ungrateful. I have _everything_ , and I’m _still_ miserable.

“Hong Kong… That was unplanned. But I knew something like that would happen, soon. I didn’t want to stop it.”

He takes another shaky breath. “I still wish I hadn’t woken up from that coma. I still…” He gags, unable to keep talking.

 _“Jiyong…”_ Minho mumbles. _“You just… Maybe you just need some help.”_

“No one can help me. _Nothing_ can help me. Nothing can make me that happy, don’t you get it?”

_“Maybe so, but… That was false happiness, wasn’t it? You need something real. You can do it. You’re already clean, you already took a big step.”_

Jiyong huffs. Once again, his vision blurs with tears. He’s never felt more pathetic in his life, never, save for when he was in rehab. “Thank you, Minho.”

_“I’m here for you.”_

Jiyong pauses. “I hope you don’t remember this in the morning.” And he hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can you come over?" Jiyong asks almost as soon as he picks up.
> 
> He's taken aback. Unsure what to say, Minho lets out a contemplative sigh. _"Is it urgent?"_
> 
> "It's not work, but…" Jiyong sighs, closes his eyes. "It is—it's kind of urgent."
> 
> _"Okay,"_ Minho mutters. He pauses. _"Right now?"_
> 
> "Yeah," weakly.

There’s no way out. A year ago he would’ve just snorted some amphetamine. With his only coping mechanism taken away, there is no way out.

It’s a steel trap, four walls pressing down on him, suffocating him endlessly. No matter how he turns, no matter where he looks, it’s the same cold walls, the same emptiness, same lack of oxygen.

He lies on the floor with the polished wood flat and hard against his back and the back of his head. He’s being pressed into the parquet by an invisible force, or being, sitting on his chest. Suffocating him. This _force_ never truly leaves, it merely gets less intense at times.

And no matter how many packs of cigarettes he smokes his way through, it doesn’t go away. None of it does. No matter how many times he fills his lungs with smoke, he still can’t breathe. Nicotine brings no relief anymore, at this point it’s just a way to pass the time.

Jiyong watches the smoke curling from his cigarette. He shakes the ash off one last time, watches the thin, transparent line dance up towards the ceiling, dispersing in the air above. He wonders, if it would hurt. He doesn’t think so. Just out of curiosity, he lowers the tip of the cigarette onto his arm. He listens to the sizzling noise, watches his own skin burn. It doesn’t hurt. It stings, but nothing beyond that.

What is he to do now? When nothing helps him breathe, nothing alleviates the pressure off his chest, nothing stops the walls from crushing him?

Jiyong tosses the extinguished cigarette butt into the ashtray and reaches across the floor to grab his phone from where it had skidded the last time he’d tossed it away. But just as each time that evening, he faces the same problem--who would he even call? He’s scrolled by names so many times, always something holding him back from pressing the contact.

A name catches his eyes. Minso. Jiyong wonders if being nauseous, trembling with a fever and expelling your entire stomach is better than this.

Anything's better than this.

This is what he's been running from, what he'd gladly replaced with a life of turbulence, violent changes between exhilaration, melancholy and nausea. Following that insane pace, looking for the next fix and dealing with the consequences seems easier than this. Anything's better than this.

Yet he doesn't call. Be it because the tiniest part of him doesn't want to go back, wants to stay clean even for the price of numbness and heaviness, inertia and entrapment, or because another name distracted him from this temptation.

Just below, Minho.

Without much thought, Jiyong figures Minho might just be the only person he can call right now. He doesn't want to question why it is so. Might be because he doesn't care about Minho as much, doesn't care about disturbing him and feels no restraint asking favours of him. But he doesn't want to question it.

He dials the number.

"Can you come over?" Jiyong asks almost as soon as he picks up.

He's taken aback. Unsure what to say, Minho lets out a contemplative sigh. _"Is it urgent?"_

"It's not work, but…" Jiyong sighs, closes his eyes. "It is—it's kind of urgent."

_"Okay,"_ Minho mutters. He pauses. _"Right now?"_

"Yeah," weakly.

Jiyong realizes, and it makes the pressure on his chest greater, more unbearable, that this isn't going to work. The one person he could get himself to call without guilt or restriction is unavailable because _of course_ he is.

What was he _thinking_? He can't just pull people out of their lives, responsibilities, daily routines, to come hang out with him whenever he's having a depressive episode. Maybe he should be more appreciative of the people who, despite everything, make an effort to do this, but that's a thought for another time.

"Listen, you don't have to come unless you're completely free. It's—" Jiyong sighs and presses the heel of his palm to his eye. "It's nothing anyway, nothing you should waste your time on unless you have time to waste."

There's a light tapping sound from the other line before Minho asks, _"What's going on?"_

An avalanche of words rushes up, but gets caught behind a lump in Jiyong’s throat. So much he could say, but doesn’t want to, not right now, not like this, not to Minho. So he ends up with his lips parted as if to speak, but unable to.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he says as the only explanation he’s willing to offer.

As soon as he utters the words, Jiyong is overwhelmed with an urge to slam his head against a hard surface. The feeling is made worse with Minho’s silence.

In a futile attempt to retroactively make his statement less pathetic, he says, “It’s fine though. Don’t go out of your way if you’re busy. I’m fine.”

The tapping noise continues. _“Actually,”_ Minho speaks after an agonizing moment. He chuckles, _“It’s kind of embarrassing really. I’m probably the only person still working on an assignment on a Friday night… I could use a quiet place to finish my work. If you’ll have me,”_ he adds, a gentle tone Jiyong’s never heard before from him.

Jiyong huffs. “You’re unbelievable,” he mumbles, covering his face. “Fine… I guess I’ll let you stay.”

_“I’ll be right there,”_ Minho says before hanging up.

It takes Minho a little less than an hour to reach Jiyong’s home in Gangnam. The idea is to let Minho paint somewhere, a room where Jiyong would be able to lie around, basically do what he’s been doing up until now, but with Minho’s presence _hopefully_ making it easier. The room best suited for this kind of arrangement would be Jiyong’s bedroom. Which means he has a little less than an hour to tidy up.

Jiyong sits up in a panic. Funny how moving a millimeter from this floor in this living room seemed so difficult seconds ago, but it’s so easy once stakes exist.

Every Monday the wonderful Mrs. Kim comes and cleans up the entire house, entirely undoing all of Jiyong’s weekly mess. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, when he would spend days on end not even moving from his bed. These days he moves around, he’s back in the studio much more thanks to his and Minho’s project. Still, it’s a Friday, and Mrs. Kim hasn’t done her job yet.

He won’t even try to do as thorough of a job as she does, but the very least he can pick up the clothes from the floor, empty out the ashtray by his bed, clear out his desk, make his bed, open the window. Because he keeps his blinds shut nearly all the time, Jiyong forgets about the wonderful view of the Seoul skyline he has from his bedroom. He stands by the window, open for the first time in so long, and watches the flickering lights across the river Han. He loses track of time, filling his lungs with fresh air, fresh as can be in a city such as Seoul, but certainly clearer than his smoke filled living room.

This thought stirs him, reminds him to go downstairs and pick up the ashtray from the floor, throw away the empty packs of cigarettes, open the windows downstairs as well. He goes to look for a new pack, perhaps something to help him pass the time before Minho gets there, but he realizes that he doesn’t have any left. Jiyong sighs at himself. Pours a glass of the first liquor he gets his hands on. He lies down on the couch, propped up a little on the armrest to be able to sip his drink as he waits.

The doorbell stirs him awake. The glass has nearly slipped out of his hand. Although empty, Jiyong’s glad he woke up before he would have to deal with broken glass. He leaves it in the kitchen and goes to open the door.

He wonders if a proper way to greet someone in this situation exists. Minho is trying. He offers a smile and a cheerful, “hey!” although despite his tone, he’s gripping tightly onto the strap of his bag, knuckles white with the intensity.

“Thank you for coming,” Jiyong says.

Talking hurts. With everyone else who used to visit like this, it was hardly ever necessary. When you know someone as long as he’s known Youngbae and Chaerin, when such a bond exists as it does with Seunghyun and Daesung, not much talking is required for them to simply know exactly what he needs.

This isn’t the case with Minho, yet Jiyong is stubborn to retain his wordlessness. That’s why, after giving him a second to take his shoes off, he only takes Minho by the sleeve of his jacket, and leads him upstairs into his newly tidied room.

There still, he doesn’t speak. Jiyong lies on the bed, flat on his back, and continues staring at the ceiling like he had for so many hours before. Minho stands nearby, the sound of his jacket’s zipper being tugged fills the room. Jiyong figures it’s unfair of him just to leave Minho like this—he still feels like a stranger in this house, he isn’t nearly as comfortable as his other friends when they visit.

But talking hurts. He can’t bring himself to utter a single word.

Minho stands a second more, before he looks around for a place to leave his bag and jacket, and he chooses the floor by the bed. Jiyong feels the heaviness of his gaze. When they meet eyes for the briefest moment, Jiyong is afraid of what Minho might have seen, that it might prompt him to ask questions.

But he doesn’t. Jiyong stares in awe as Minho doesn’t say a word, beginning to search his pockets. Never has he been more grateful for someone’s silence. [It hits him then that despite them knowing each other for such a brief time, despite there not being an instantaneous bond, perhaps due to the way they’d met, Minho does understand.]

Out of a pocket he pulls out a… colourful bandaid, with cartoon characters on it.

The bed dips when Minho sits beside Jiyong. He leans down, overly concentrated as he puts the band aid on the burn mark right above the crown on the inside of Jiyong’s forearm. The band aid does nothing. It isn’t a suitable way to treat a burn. Jiyong isn’t bleeding. It’s merely an attempt at cheering him up, Minho’s little piece of care. It makes Jiyong feel guilty, for being unable to offer anything but an appreciative huff in return.

Minho doesn’t linger on the bed. Jiyong sees him moving out of his peripheral vision, but he only looks at Minho once he’s settled down. What Jiyong sees when he looks to the side is Minho, having pulled a chair up next to the bed, one foot on the nightstand and his sketchbook balanced on his knee.

Jiyong doesn’t look away again. He watches Minho’s pencil move, held by slender fingers. He listens to the strokes against the paper. He watches, also, Minho’s profile, his furrowed brows and the little pout set upon his lip, the way he stops every now and again to push his bangs out of his eyes.

Jiyong doesn’t look away, focusing only on the sounds of the pencil strokes.

When he opens his eyes next, Jiyong isn't sure if he's slept or not. There is nothing to indicate the passage of time; the sky is just as dark as it has been before his eyes had closed, Minho is in the same position as he'd been before he’d drifted off. The only difference is the blanket that has been draped over him. Slowly coming to, Jiyong fixes his gaze on the culprit once again.

Feeling the gaze on him, the strokes of Minho’s pencil come to a halt and he looks to the side.

He smiles. “You’re awake.”

Jiyong nods, rolling over onto his side and pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “You haven’t finished your assignment,” he says, voice raspy.

“No, I finished it. I moved onto some practice sketches.” As he says this, Minho promptly closes the sketchbook and picks up his bag to put all of his supplies away.

Watching him do this, Jiyong finds himself saddened by the loss of the view. He doesn’t know what’s so soothing about it but one thing’s for sure, he could watch Minho draw or paint for hours. It’s this thought that brings an insane idea into his mind, one that he isn’t able to shake off while he watches Minho close his bag.

“Are the dorms a good place to study or… do these kinds of assignments?” Jiyong asks.

Minho straightens up, tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve always had a place of my own, lots of space to do what I needed.” He shrugs. “I was just wondering if it’s ever annoying trying to be productive in such a space that you have to share with others.”

Minho stops to think for a moment, this time filling the room with the sounds of the button on his pants being opened and pressed closed. “It can be annoying at times, yeah. But we all pull through. I’m not the first or the last person to stay at a dorm.”

Jiyong stares ahead of himself, trying to find the least assertive way to make his suggestion. “Would it make it easier if you had somewhere to go to do your work?”

It once again takes Minho a while to come up with an answer. “Sometimes it’s easier to just stay in my room,” he says. “But I guess it would be nice. Every artist dreams of having their own studio.”

Jiyong swallows. He looks at Minho. “You can come here if you ever need a quiet place to work.”

Minho isn’t exactly surprised. His smile shows gratitude for the suggestion he’s anticipated being spoken out loud. “That could be nice,” he says. “Thank you.”

Jiyong tries to make himself get up. With less effort than anticipated, he finds himself in an upright position. There are technical details over Minho visiting to be figured out, but at the moment he isn’t capable of such brainstorming.

“I’m sorry for being such a terrible host today,” Jiyong says instead.

“It’s fine, things were a little…” He trails off, fumbling with the same button until he settles on an expression, “... _unusual_ today.”

“You can say that again,” Jiyong mutters, rubbing his cheek. “I suppose it’s a bit late for that but, would you like a drink?”

Minho gives a polite smile. “I’m okay.”

Jiyong has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “You’ve been here a while, don’t you want some water at least?”

“I should get going actually, it’s late,” Minho gives his excuses as he picks his bag up from the ground.

At this point Jiyong gives up. “Well, if you need anything before you go…” He opens his arms and shrugs.

Standing up from the chair and taking it back to its original place, Minho smiles. “Fine, fine… I might take you up on that glass of water.”

Minho drinks his water in the hallway as if he’s in a rush to leave. This is it… Jiyong’s last chance to ask.

He clears his throat. “Minho… I was wondering.”

Minho raises his eyebrows, looking at Jiyong over his glass.

“What do you remember from your outing with your friends a week ago?”

Minho stops drinking, holds the glass and stares at it. “A bit…”

Jiyong swallows. “Do you remember that I called?”

Minho hesitantly looks at him. “Do you want me to lie?”

Jiyong exhales through the nose. “No.”

“Well…” Minho hands the glass back. “See you another time? You can call me whenever you need… And hey, let’s talk about me coming here to paint, hm?” He smiles with considerable effort to break the tension that has built.

Jiyong appreciates the attempt.

“Yeah. See you another time.”

* * *

“Okay, let’s go from the top,” Jiyong says as calmly as possible.

He isn’t angry or upset. Minho’s anxiety is being transferred onto him through the electric currents that connect the mic and Jiyong’s headphones and he’s finding it difficult not to sound like an asshole.

Minho wipes his hands against his jeans yet again. “Okay…” He mutters into the mic. His breathing sounds like wind in the headset. It’s rapid and irregular and at times sounds like choking.

Jiyong catches his own breathing quickening for no reason. He needs a second to calm himself.

“Actually wait,” he says, leaning forward.

When Minho looks up through the glass, he’s terrified, almost on the verge of tears.

“Are you okay?”Jiyong asks next.

Minho blanks for a second. “What?”

“You’ve been out of it ever since you arrived. Is everything okay?”

No response. Minho drops his gaze, beginning to fidget with the hem of his sleeve.

“Let’s take a break. It’s not working out right now, but I’m sure you’ll be fine if you take a breather.”

Minho nods a few times, taking off his own headphones with shaky hands.

Holy shit. Jiyong frowns at just how much Minho’s hands are shaking and how visible it is from this distance.

But he doesn’t get a chance to ask the younger anything as he bursts out of the box and immediately storms out the door.

Jiyong lets him. He clearly has some shit to deal with at the moment.

Except that in the next moment there’s a thud from outside the door and at this Jiyong jumps up from his seat. He rushes outside, only to see Minho in the hallway, standing up while holding onto the wall.

“I tripped,” he says quickly. His eyes glisten. “I’m fine.”

“For sure,” Jiyong says, already making his way over.

He takes Minho by the shoulders and stirs him towards the staircase, then sits him down on the first step. Gently, he pushes Minho’s head between his knees and instructs him to breathe as deeply as he can.

This hardly seems to help as Minho only continues shaking, now even more intensely than before. Jiyong attempts to get him to breathe along with counting, but this has no effect either.

He tries talking to him.

Before long, he’s out of ideas.

Desperate for any solution, Jiyong begins to hum his most famous ballad while rubbing Minho’s back.

At first this too does nothing, but eventually Minho’s breathing evens out, the little whimpers he’s been letting out ceasing as well. He’s left trembling, but at that point he slowly straightens up and tries to do some breathing exercises on his own.

Jiyong’s voice fades.

They sit in silence, overlooking the first floor.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Minho says and Jiyong isn’t surprised.

“No reason to apologize.”

And they’re silent again. Sitting together, staring ahead.

“I saw that something was wrong. I saw you trying to hold it together.”

No response. Minho shrinks, hugging himself.

“Minho, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?” He says with considerable effort and a hint of a bitter laugh in his voice.

“Let’s do one thing at a time, okay?”

Minho shoots Jiyong a quick, uncertain glance. Then he nods, looking back ahead. “I guess… I’m just really stressed? It’s finals season and I’m snowed in with work. I tried not to procrastinate it but I just—I get so stressed that I can’t even start and—” He is very close to hyperventilating again.

Jiyong’s hand automatically goes to rub his back. “Breathe,” he mutters.

Minho takes a few deep breaths before continuing. “I’m struggling to keep up. There’s so much to do and I’m already behind. But if I don’t do well I could lose my spot in the dorm—then I’d have nowhere to stay and I’d probably have to go home without a degree that I came here for and—”

“Hey, hey, deep breaths,” Jiyong reminds, continuing to rub soothing circles on Minho’s back. He gives him time to calm down before speaking, “So that’s two problems. Finals season stress and worry over the dorm.”

“Two of many,” Minho mumbles.

“I understand. But we’ll tackle one at a time, remember? So, stress. I have an idea that might help.”

Sniffling, Minho gives Jiyong a quizzical look.

“You can always reschedule with me! Until finals pass we can space out our meetings. We’re in no rush, you and I. You need some time to study without other engagements? Done.”

For just a second Minho seems to relax, but soon enough his expression is worried again. “Are you sure? You’re not busy?”

Jiyong almost laughs at this. He just gives Minho a smile and a raise of the eyebrows. “Minho, I’m a recovering drug addict. Even though it’s been a while, I’m still not… all that functional. I hardly have anything to do these days. It will be absolutely _no problem_ to postpone some of our meetings, or all of them, until you’re less snowed in.”

Minho’s bottom lip quivers but he smiles nonetheless. “Thank you… Thank you. That might help.”

“Great! See, this way you’ll be able to focus on your studies and not worry about your dorm spot.”

Minho nods, ducking his head to wipe his eyes.

“But, if it comes to the worst case scenario, just know that Seunghyun could always find you a place in Seoul.”

Minho now shakes his head. “I couldn’t—my family couldn’t afford it.”

“We’d figure something out.”

Knowing what this really means, Minho once again shakes his head and firmly says, “No.”

Jiyong presses his lips together. Then, another solution crosses his mind. “Well… There’s enough room here too.”

Minho raises his eyebrows. “That… That could work. That’d be lovely.”

Jiyong smiles and nods. “And remember, you’re always free to come here to paint or study if you can’t focus anywhere else.”

Minho pouts in thought. “About that. How—how would that work?”

Jiyong shrugs. “I’ll have copies of the keys made.”

“Oh—Um, thanks, that’s…”

“No need to thank me, kid. It’s my pleasure.”

This time when Minho hides his face, it’s to hide his smile.

“I actually do have an art studio as well—more like a modified room, but I think you’d like it.”

At this, Minho perks up.

Jiyong can’t help smiling. “I can show it to you later.”

Minho nods enthusiastically, no longer hiding his excitement.

But it is lost once, after a brief silence, Jiyong asks, “Anything else you’d like to share,” nudging him softly.

Minho’s smile disappearing gives Jiyong a sharp sting of guilt, but he knows the question is necessary so he tries to suppress the guilt.

Minho thinks for a very long moment. He raises his head, as if he’s about to say something. Then he swiftly returns to contemplation for a moment more. “I just… I can’t keep going like this.”

“Like what?” Jiyong asks quietly.

“Overthinking everything, Doubting and second guessing. Always jumpy, always scared. I’m—tired of having panic attacks every other day.”

Jiyong presses his lips together, trying to find the right thing to say. “You know… among the things Seunghyun can get you is a therapist.”

Seeing Minho shrink, hugging himself tighter, Jiyong curses himself for immediately pressuring him into therapy.

He knows how difficult it was for him when friends tried to force him into rehab. How could he be so stupid? One does not immediately bring up therapy, for fuck’s sake.

He simply… he didn’t know what else to suggest. Which, of course, doesn’t negate the fact that he fucked up.

To Jiyong’s surprise though, Minho says, “I could’ve found one when I got here, but… I’m not sure it would work. I think I’m—” he laughs bitterly, “I’m pretty sure there’s no fixing me.”

“I don’t think you believe that,” Jiyong says in a gentle tone he’s never heard from himself before.

Minho’s shoulders tense and he clenches his fists. “I’m ashamed,” he whispers. “My family will think I’m a freak. They—already treat me that way. If they knew I was seeing a shrink—”

“Your family isn’t here, Minho. Let yourself be free from them. Independence is one of the reasons you moved out, isn’t it? Let yourself be independent. Do something you know is good for you.”

Jiyong knows he’s making leaps in logic here. He knows it’s a huge gamble to assume Minho’s family situation, but at the same time, from what Minho has told him, he has a pretty good guess.

He has to try.

There’s a long, heavy sigh from Minho. “I’ll try… I’ll think about it.” He bites his bottom lip, clicks his piercing against his teeth. “Thank you. Thank you, Jiyong.” He tries for a smile.

“Anytime, kid.”

A thought pops up in Jiyong’s mind, so crazy he feels bad for ever thinking it. Despite this it ends up crossing his lips and being spoken, no matter his efforts to honour his rational thinking.

“We don’t have to continue recording tonight,” he speaks, “But it’s gotten very late. It would be okay if you… If you wanted to stay here.”

Minho sits up, perhaps startled by the idea and Jiyong mentally kicks himself. _Of course_ it was a stupid thing to say, _of course_ it was a ridiculous proposition.

“That’d be okay?” Minho asks quietly.

“Yes,” Jiyong says, matching his volume.

Minho’s shoulders relax, he lets out a breath and nods. He looks… relieved. “I could use a break, maybe… I’ll just have to redo my study plan and…” He looks at Jiyong. “Maybe reschedule our next meeting? So I can catch up on my work?”

Jiyong beams stupidly. “Of course!”

There are a few rooms Jiyong doesn’t use. When he used to throw house parties every other week, people would often sleep over in those, or fuck while the party was still ongoing.

Other times, it was for his friends to sleep over when they were visiting.

One such room was given to Minho to sleep in after their talk. Jiyong went into the studio to tidy up, but ended up just sitting around and smoking.

He stares out the window through the smoke, wondering.

Why does it matter to him so much that Minho is always comfortable around him and in this job? Why does he care so much about Minho’s wellbeing?

Maybe he isn’t as terrible a person as he believed. What he’s doing is just basic human decency, really.

But when people tell you that you’re selfish and self centered enough, you start to believe them. Soon after… you start to act like it.

Jiyong wants to feel good about himself for apparently having fixed this character flaw of his. But he doesn’t, he can’t.

He doesn’t believe it. Deep down he knows he’s the same person he was in an LA hotel room, that miserable curled up man who can only think about his next fix.

His chest hurts just thinking about it. Subconsciously, Jiyong’s hand goes up to his chest, rubbing as if to get the pressure away.

Jiyong gets up. He puts out his cigarette and gets to work. He needs to move, to keep busy, otherwise his mind might go back to those years ago.

Otherwise his mind might go back to Minho, barely keeping it together in the recording booth, and Jiyong caught himself unable to breathe when he thinks about that.

* * *

Light shines from behind Jiyong’s eyelids. Too bright, coming from large, panel windows. He already knows where he is.

Opening his eyes sluggishly, he catches a glimpse of the ceiling of his living room.

That’s right. He had another nightmare.

Despite his efforts not to think of it, images flash through Jiyong’s head, startling him out of his sleep.

Noise reaches him soon after. Quick, scratchy strokes of pencil against paper.

Jiyong opens his eyes at last, only to see Minho sitting on the floor, not too far from where Jiyong’s head is, back against the couch.

Jiyong finally catches a glimpse of what the younger is working on.

Hands. In different poses, from different angles. Jiyong’s eyes widen when he sees that one of those hands has a little smiley face at the base of its thumb. His shock is quickly replaced with a soft smile.

“Is that me?”

Minho jumps up in his spot and presses his sketchbook to his chest, clutching the pencil tight.

“No,” he shoots.

“I saw my tattoos on there,” Jiyong says, unraveling himself from the blanket.

Hold on a second. A blanket? He didn’t get himself a blanket last night.

He looks at Minho, who is still clutching his sketchbook.

“I was doing a study,” he says. “Hands—anatomy—my weakest point. I had to practice.”

“I see,” Jiyong says, grinning. He stretches like a cat, letting out a yawn. “Well, from what I saw you did a great job.”

Minho clears his throat. “Can I ask what you’re doing on the couch? I thought you had a room of your own.”

“Ah… Yeah.”

What a swift change of subject. As impressed as he is, Jiyong can’t help resenting Minho for bringing this up.

Then again…

Jiyong finds himself unafraid of the possibility of telling Minho the truth.

Maybe it’s the fact that he already bared himself to Minho with Superstar, his long lost song. Maybe.

“I had a nightmare. I still have them from time to time so I walk around the house to calm down. I often end up falling asleep here in the end.”

“Oh… I see.”

Jiyong doesn’t want to allow any more awkward silences. He gets up and begins folding the blanket, just so he has something to do.

Minho kicks into action as well, closing his sketchbook and picking up his drawing supplies.

“Do you, um, want coffee or something?” He asks, standing up.

“Sure,” Jiyong says, nodding in thanks. “Do you want me to get some breakfast? I’m not sure what I have in my fridge…” He trails off, thinking of Chaerin’s recent grocery shopping. It can’t be that bad, can it? Jiyong hasn’t eaten or cooked much.

“Your fridge is fine,” Minho says through a chuckle. “I had some cereal.”

“Okay then.” That will be easy enough to check.

And Minho disappears into the kitchen to make coffee while Jiyong goes upstairs to put the blanket away.

While Jiyong munches on his own cereal, Minho reminds him of his art studio and how he said he would take him there. Immediately after finishing his breakfast, Jiyong takes him upstairs.

Minho is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He’s tense, as if afraid to walk in.

“I haven’t used it in a while, so it’s much tidier…” Jiyong says, rubbing the back of his neck.

It’s on the very top floor, so sunlight isn’t coming in just from the windows on the wall, but from large ceiling windows as well.

Usually there would be tons of Jiyong’s works in progress scattered around the floor, but now they are neatly put up against the wall. The paintings hung around as decorations are none by him. There are much fewer of his clothing designs hanging around than there would be if he were active.

The desk in the corner is tidy. The floors are clean and so are the supplies, neatly arranged on two shelves by the window.

There is but one spot, in the center of the room, that exudes chaos.

A lone easel with its canvas turned away from the two of them. Paint brushes have fallen off, paint has splattered around it. Jiyong’s chair was pushed up beside it, he’s been using it as a table.

“Like it’s straight out of a movie,” Minho mumbles. “May I?” He asks Jiyong, pointing to the easel.

Jiyong shrugs.

Minho walks over. He spends a while staring at Jiyong’s work in progress, or rather his beginning.

“It was watching you that inspired me to start painting again.”

It just came out. Jiyong didn’t really mean to say it.

“I haven’t made anything since.... before my last tour.” Jiyong smiles serenely. “I’ve missed it.”

Minho looks at Jiyong, bewildered. “You started painting again… because of _me_?” He points to himself to emphasize his shock.

Jiyong nods with a shrug of his shoulders.

When Minho’s gaze drops back to the canvas, he’s beaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, are you satisfied with the album so far?”
> 
> Jiyong’s scalp burns just a little. It’s the waiting part of the bleaching process. Chaerin is sitting in an armchair in the living room, waiting for a response. Daesung is on the floor with Jiyong. Daesung is the one who’s bleaching Jiyong’s hair. He looks at Jiyong, curious to hear his response as well.
> 
> “Good.” He goes quiet. “Great, actually. Better than I expected.”

Jiyong trots down the hallway towards the studio. The sound of soft rnb music reached him even as he was stretching in bed, too lazy to get up. He figured he’d give Minho some peace to work.

But he’s finally up now, slipping quietly into the studio.

“Good morning.”

Minho jumps a little, turning around. “Oh! Morning.” He offers a bright smile. “Did you sleep well? Hopefully better than yesterday..”

Jiyong gives a strained smile and nods. He hasn’t slept very well tonight either, but he doesn’t feel like getting into it.

To deflect the subject, Jiyong raises his mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Every day the past week Jiyong has returned from the bathroom to a mug of coffee on his nightstand as well as his bed made. The culprit is sitting on the spinny chair, having turned his back to the canvas, smiling.

“I told you already, there’s no reason to thank me,” Minho says. “It’s the least I can do to make it up to you.”

“And I’ve told _you,_ ” Jiyong counters. “There’s no reason to make anything up to me. It’s my pleasure to have you here.”

Minho shrugs, a gesture that suggests he will definitely continue being Jiyong’s morning maid.

“Speaking of which,” Jiyong says. “Are we doing it today?”

Minho’s smile fades as he gets into his serious business mode. “Yeah. I don’t see why we wouldn’t finish everything today, after all we have only one song left. I’m actually gonna be done with this—” he gestures behind himself, “—soon so we can go into the studio.”

Jiyong nods. “Lovely. In that case I’ll be downstairs, just shout when you’re ready.”

“Oh, you can stay if you want.”

Jiyong doesn’t need to be told twice. He only goes to his room to grab a pack of cigarettes. Back in the art studio, he sits on a beanbag in the corner and watches Minho paint.

It was the two of them that decided to put that beanbag there. It was because Jiyong had grown the balls to tell Minho that he enjoys watching him paint. Minho then said that Jiyong was one of the few people he felt comfortable watching him work. So they figured they could bring one of the beanbags from Jiyong’s room to the studio so that he could sit around and watch when there was a chance for it.

Jiyong gets through a few cigarettes before Minho goes away to wash his supplies and Jiyong gets up to help him get everything in order. Once that task is done, it’s time to record Superstar.

“What are you smiling about?” Jiyong asks, smiling himself over his water bottle.

“I just can’t believe we’re done soon. As soon as you’re done with this song…”

“Well—”

“I know, I know,” Minho cuts in, putting away the headphones. “But I mean _our_ part of the conception of the album is soon done.”

Jiyong tilts his head. “Well, that’s technically true. But we still have to record the promotional material. Not to mention promotions themselves.”

Minho sighs deeply, beginning to spin his chair left and right. “Yeah…”

“Nervous?”

Minho nods. “A little. Honestly, performing itself seems less scary than the possibility of me fucking up during a photoshoot or MV shooting. And _both_ are scary.”

“I understand. You’re new to this, it’s normal to be nervous.” Jiyong walks over to the other chair and falls into it, causing it to spin. “But you won’t be doing it on your own. You’ll have me and an entire crew of people who will all be there to help you and tell you what to do. You’ll be just fine, kid. There’s no way you can mess this up.”

Minho’s chair comes to a slow stop facing Jiyong’s own. “...Thank you. I really—I hope everything goes well.”

“It will.” Jiyong flinches as something crosses his mind. He catches Minho’s gaze and says, “And please, whatever you do, don’t compare yourself to me. I’ve been around the block, you know? I know what I’m doing, I’ve been doing this since I was literally a kid. It’s incomparable, as it should be. In your own right, you’re doing just fine. But we’re a completely different system, you and I, you get me?”

Minho is frowning, but he nods. “I think so… Yeah.” He nods again. “Thank you. Thank you, Jiyong. It’s good enough knowing that I won’t be alone.”

Jiyong is already thinking about the next thing to say to fill the silence when Minho chimes in,

“On a brighter note, I’ll be dyeing my hair black for my debut.”

Jiyong raises his eyebrows, smiling. “Oh? I thought we’d be matching cus I’ll be bleaching my hair.”

“What’s wrong with a little variety?”

“True. We don’t want you looking like a mini Kwon Jiyong.”

Minho nudges Jiyong with his foot, but bursts out laughing nonetheless.

* * *

“So, are you satisfied with the album so far?”

Jiyong’s scalp burns just a little. It’s the waiting part of the bleaching process. Chaerin is sitting in an armchair in the living room, waiting for a response. Daesung is on the floor with Jiyong. Daesung is the one who’s bleaching Jiyong’s hair. He looks at Jiyong, curious to hear his response as well.

“Good.” He goes quiet. “Great, actually. Better than I expected.”

Chaerin is smiling. Daesung as well.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew everything would be fine.”

Jiyong taps a rhythm on his thigh. “I actually…” He huffs. “You can’t tell Seunghyun about this.”

Daesung raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.

“He was right.”

Chaerin bursts out laughing. “No worries, our lips are sealed!”

Jiyong shoots her a look, but swiftly returns to staring at the carpet.

“He was right about what?” Daesung prompts.

Jiyong takes a moment to question whether to get into this, but then he decides that he has to, now that he’s brought it up. He tells them about him meeting Minho, about meeting him once again in Seunghyun’s office, about Seunghyun’s prediction that working with him might be helpful to Jiyong.

“And it was,” he says. “I needed that kind of push, I guess.”

Daesung and Chaerin both nod understandingly.

“Well, we may not be allowed to admit what you’ve just told us, but Seunghyunie definitely deserves praise. I’m glad he gave you that deal, I’m happy you’re finally back to doing what you love.”

Daesung nods in agreement. He rests a hand on Jiyong’s thigh. “Are you feeling any better?”

Jiyong bites his bottom lip. He wishes people wouldn’t act like there’s one singular cure to depression. Just because he returned to making music and somewhat of a social life doesn’t mean he feels good.

Then again… as much as it kills him to admit it, it’s _better_. Better doesn’t have to mean good.

“A bit better,” he mutters.

Daesung doesn’t say anything else, he just hugs Jiyong. Chaerin stands up from the armchair to join in.

* * *

Another day, another nightmare.

Jiyong hasn’t slept. He wears sunglasses in the middle of January to hide the bags under his eyes before the makeup artists make him look presentable.

Him and Minho have finished recording. Minho’s finals season has ended as well, and he was finally feeling the least bit less stressed. This meant that it was the perfect moment for them to start with the shoots and MV filming.

As he sips on his third coffee that morning, the words of their artistic director pass through Jiyong’s mind, hardly sticking. He’ll know what to do when the time comes, but right now his brain is unable to process information.

The only thing reaching his brain is the sound of Minho’s badges being clicked together. He can feel Minho’s own anxiety seeping into his system. Never before has anyone been able to pass their anxiety onto Jiyong this much.

He’ll have to talk to Minho about it.

Jiyong waits for the first opportunity to excuse them both, saying that he needs to _have a word with his colleague._

Jiyong takes Minho by the sleeve and drags him towards the nearest changing room in the establishment and slams the door behind them both.

Minho is pale like porcelain. He trembles, continuously clicking the two badges on his bag together. “What?” He stutters. His eyes are wide, as if he’s expecting something awful.

“Dude. Are you okay?” is all Jiyong says though.

And as soon as he does there are tears in Minho’s eyes.

“Oh boy,” Jiyong mutters to himself, watching Minho trying to keep himself together. “It’s okay to cry, you know, if you can’t talk now…”

And Minho does. He breaks down, burying his face in his hands. Jiyong can’t do much but watch his shoulders shake, listen to his choked sobs.

Jiyong just stands there, a weight pressing down on his chest. He rubs at his sternum as if it would alleviate the pressure.

“It’s—It’s gonna be okay,” Jiyong tries. He hesitates, hastily debating whether it would be appropriate.

But Minho cries so intensely, his breathing hitches so horribly that Jiyong must do something.

He reaches out, resting his hand on Minho’s shoulder. He gently rubs Minho’s back like he has back in his house when Minho’s was having a panic attack. He doesn’t seem to mind the contact, but nothing happens for a while.

It takes time for Minho to stop crying. He wipes his eyes a bit too long once he’s finally stopped.

“You don’t have to hide,” Jiyong says, attempting to sound compassionate. “I noticed that something was wrong so I wanted to… I don’t know. Is there any way I can help?”

Minho shrugs, still hiding his face in his hands, still trying to play it off like he’s wiping his eyes. “I’m nervous… I know it’s fucking stupid, I know I’m being dumb but I’m so fucking nervous—”

“It isn’t stupid,” Jiyong says. “It’s completely understandable to get nervous over something like this. It’s alright to be anxious about this, Minho.” Jiyong racks his brains for something smart to say, anything that might put the younger at ease…

“I’ll be with you through it, okay? If it helps… You’ll have me, the photographer, the artistic director, everyone helping you with what you need to do. You won’t be lost for a second there, I promise.”

Minho stares at the ground, at the wall, everywhere except for Jiyong.

“Is there anything else bothering you?” He prompts.

“Well—”

But before Minho gets to speak the door swings open. Their art director, the lovely Lee Soonyi stands in the doorway with quite the smug smile on her face. Behind her, Seunghyun stands shaking his head, trying to wordlessly communicate to Jiyong that he’s sorry, that he’s tried to stop her.

Jiyong gives a little appreciative nod to his efforts. He appreciated the few minutes he and Minho got together, even though they apparently needed more.

“Alright, alright,” Soonyi says. “You can share that dressing room, but we need to get started now.”

Minho’s eyes widen and Jiyong raises his eyebrows. Minho says, “what?” at the same time as Jiyong says, “excuse me?”

Soonyi gives no further explanation, just a wink. Behind her, Seunghyun face-palms.

And so preparations ensue.

As it turns out, Minho and Jiyong are given the dressing room to share. It’s quite bigger than some Jiyong has been in, but he still finds it unnecessary. Still, he dismisses it as Soonyi’s attempt at humour, perhaps even an attempt at breaking the tension.

Jiyong avoids mirrors like the plague. He doesn’t want to look at himself and his broken body. He lets himself be assisted with getting dressed but refuses to look at his reflection until the outfit is fully on.

When he’s halfway into his pair of skinny jeans, he hears Minho’s voice from behind his back,

“You look so good.”

Jiyong trips, nearly falling over. He’s helped up by one of the assistants and he has to put up with shaky hands until the jeans are all the way on.

“Thanks,” he mutters, not turning around.

It’s only once they get their hair and makeup done that Jiyong gets to have a proper look at Minho.

He’s a vision. This simple styling looks amazing on him; the white tank top with a print and the flannel shirt that falls off his shoulder leave his tattoos on display. A thin silver chain dangles around his neck. His newly dyed black hair is slicked back, letting his undercut be seen. This way more of his face is visible as well. Jiyong has never seen his lovely sharp features so clearly. Minho usually wears his bangs over his forehead, letting them fall into his eyes and obscure his face.

Jiyong doesn’t let himself dwell too much on the fact that Minho’s legs look terribly slim in those skinny jeans, or the fact that despite that, his butt looks pretty cute in them.

Unfortunately Minho must have sensed eyes on him as in the next moment he turns, catching Jiyong’s gaze before he has the chance to look away.

Jiyong offers a smile instead of trying to play it off. “See what you can look like when many professionals get involved.”

Minho blinks, brows furrowed. Seunghyun comes up from behind him and rests a hand on Minho’s shoulder.

“That’s his backwards way of complimenting you,” Seunghyun tells him.

Jiyong doesn’t deny it. “You look amazing,” he says.

Minho offers an excited little smile. “Likewise.”

Minho still fidgets while they listen to their instructions. To make him stop, Jiyong unthinkingly reaches for Minho’s hand. The younger doesn’t protest. He squeezes Jiyong’s hand tightly.

Jiyong is now completely determined to show Minho that photoshoots aren’t a big deal, that they are, in fact, fun. He makes a point to joke around with the photographers and Soonyi, to mess up a few times and play it off, to be there for Minho when he’s feeling particularly anxious.

And Jiyong is pleased to see Minho gradually opening up, to see the anxiety seeping out of him and going down the drain. In fact, once he isn’t stiffly following Soonyi’s instructions, he manages to give his poses a character of their own.

“You’re actually pretty good at this once you loosen up,” Jiyong whispers to Minho as they stand back to back like Soonyi has told them.

To this Minho replies only with tipping his head back and resting it on Jiyong’s shoulder.

“That’s perfect!” Soonyi exclaims, clapping her hands. “Let’s try one with Minho sitting on the bed,” she says next when the shots were taken.

* * *

“I thought I’d die.”

Minho has been rambling about his experience ever since they entered the dressing room. Jiyong doesn’t mind. Minho’s giddiness brings a smile to his lips that won’t seem to go away.

“But it was okay in the end! I was just nervous about how the clothes would look on me. It’s not something I’d usually wear…”

Jiyong nods. “I understand you completely.” He wants to say more, but he doesn’t want to open that can of worms, not yet.

They both continue changing in understanding silence.

When they get out, changed into their comfy clothes, Seunghyun steps in between them, wrapping an arm around each of them.

“Good job boys!”

Jiyong rolls his eyes, but says nothing. He simply can’t remember the last time Seunghyun has called him a _boy_.

“How about we go get something to eat? You two must be starving. I know I am.”

Jiyong _is_ starving. He doesn’t know why these schedules must always take place so early in the morning. He hardly has the time to eat when he needs to be at the studio at 6 am and by the time the shoot is finished he is famished.

But Seunghyun’s idea shoots a sting of worry into Jiyong’s abdomen. He immediately looks Minho’s way, just as he says,

“I think I have some plans.”

“You think? Do you or don’t you?” Seunghyun asks, still speaking lightly, oblivious to the problem.

Jiyong wanted to talk to him, but he wasn’t sure it was his place. In all honesty he has just made an assumption based on a comment of Minho’s. Maybe he was just projecting his own fears onto the kid, so he didn’t want to spread panic for no reason.

“Can’t you make some time for your boss and colleague?” Seunghyun says.

Minho’s shoulders tense. He’s staring ahead. “I really should go, actually. I need to study and…”

Jiyong looks at Minho, attempting to read his expression. “Want me to drop you off?”

“Hey, hey, you can’t blow me off too!” Seunghyun complains.

Jiyong throws him a look. “I’ll be right back. Call Youngbae, Daesung and Chaerin. We should restore our tradition of going to _Chen’s_ , yeah?”

When Seunghyun gives him a skeptical, questioning look, Jiyong only smiles.

“I’ll be there, I promise,” he says.

“Alright… See you later.”

In the car, the clicking of Minho’s badges can be heard again. He must be able to tell that something is coming.

“I guess I just thought your compliment was off,” Jiyong says as to put Minho out of the misery of waiting.

“I just liked your outfit.”

Jiyong sighs. “Not _that_. What you said when we were in the dressing room. You know, getting dressed.”

Minho facepalms. He leaves his hand on his face, covering his mouth. “I am _so sorry_ about that. It was inappropriate and I shouldn’t have said it and—”

“What exactly were you complimenting?” Jiyong cuts him off.

“Wh-at?” Minho stutters.

“You just said I looked good. What did you mean by that?”

Minho doesn’t speak. “I was…” He falls silent again. “I was complimenting your body.” He chokes a bit on the last word and coughs to cover it up, unsuccessfully.

Minho starts to apologize again, but Jiyong shakes his head.

“You know I’m the last person to mind compliments, Minho. Even that kind. But it’s a bit concerning. What—do you even find attractive in someone who’s underweight?”

“I’m sorry,” Minho repeats. “I didn’t know.”

“How didn’t you know? Like it’s a secret that I’m a fucking addict!”

“It—it slipped my mind—”

Jiyong takes deep, calming breaths. He doesn’t want to be angry with Minho, he doesn’t want to upset him.

“It’s fine, Minho. Just—It’s concerning, you know. If that’s what you find beautiful. You shouldn’t. You—” He sighs. “You shouldn’t look up to me in anything, but _especially_ this.”

Jiyong gives Minho the room to deny it. To say, “But I don’t look up to you or your body. It was a lapse in judgment.” Perhaps Jiyong was mistaken.

But Minho says nothing.

“I lost so much weight during the worst of my addiction.” Jiyong has to clear his throat after hearing the weakness in his own voice. He didn’t expect this to be so hard to say. “The symptoms of withdrawals and being underweight got all mixed up, obviously, but… I remember being cold, all the time. I remember shaking and being so god damn _weak_. I was always sick so even when I tried to eat I’d just throw everything back up. It was not fun. Getting to the body I have now was not fun.”

Minho stays quiet. When Jiyong throws a glance at him he notes how he’s hugging himself.

“It was torture. And the fact that you find a tortured body beautiful is concerning.” Jiyong swallows. “I haven’t been all that… diligent in my recovery. But this is the one thing I actually wanted to recover from. I _hate_ my body. My reflection makes me _sick_. And for you to say that I look good…”

“I didn’t know,” Minho repeats, shakily.

“It’s fine,” Jiyong says, matching his tone. “Just… Please, for the love of God, reevaluate your aesthetic standards for others and yourself. Especially yourself. If you look up to people like me, you’ll hurt yourself. Get some fucking help.”

Minho only nods.

Jiyong knows he won’t.

Hearing about Seunghyun’s overdose didn’t make Jiyong want to go to rehab. He doubts that just telling his own little sob story will be enough to make Minho want to get help either.

But what else was he supposed to say? It isn’t his problem anyway.

Minho bounces his leg.

Jiyong knows he won’t.

Hearing about Seunghyun’s overdose didn’t make Jiyong want to go to rehab. He doubts that just telling his own little sob story will be enough to make Minho want to get help either.

“Like that’s easy,” Minho mutters.

“I know it isn’t,” Jiyong says, “But—”

“No, you clearly don’t.”

Jiyong stares at Minho for a second before returning his gaze to the street ahead.

“You clearly don’t know _anything_ , Jiyong. You think just telling me to reevaluate my aesthetic standards will fix things? You think that’s the only problem here? That I was influenced into this? You have no fucking clue what it’s like. It’s not just about—aesthetics, it’s—”

“Calm the fuck down,” Jiyong says, attempting to keep his own voice steady. “I know it’s not just that, but what you said was really messed up! It’s definitely a part of the problem, that fucked up mindset—”

“I know that! I know and I already said I was fucking sorry for saying that! But fuck, Jiyong it’s not just about looks! You’re not gonna fix me by telling me all this bullshit!”

“I’m not trying to fix you! Your eating disorder isn’t my fucking problem!”

“Then why are you up my ass about it!?”

Jiyong slams the breaks, not having noticed a red light. Both of them jolt forward, then slam back into their seats.

“You just don’t get it,” Minho spits. “You don’t know what it’s like, struggling to lose weight. You had it easy.”

Jiyong turns slowly, looking at Minho wide-eyed. “I had it _easy_? _I had it easy!?_ ”

In that moment, Minho realizes what he said. His lips part, all anger seeping out of him, replaced with remorse. “I’m sorry, I only meant—”

“I know what you fucking meant.” He unlocks the car. “Get out.”

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to apologize again. He only scurries out and away.

When he gets home, Jiyong doesn’t want to change. He’s afraid of looking at his body.

He stays up almost the entire night, recalling his fight with Minho. Overthinking everything he said, wondering if he’d been too harsh, or too stupid.

No. No, he was fucking right.

He just tried to help, to point out a negative mindset that was not helping Minho’s case. It isn’t his fault that Minho misunderstood it as Jiyong putting aesthetics into the center of his problem.

He just wanted to fucking help. It isn’t his fault that Minho got so defensive so quickly.

He keeps going back to that comment… _You had it easy_.

To this day, Jiyong is haunted by those days he spent chained to the bed, struggling to even inhale that which was keeping him going. Barely moving unless he was high. Constantly in pain, with only a few hour bursts of relief.

_He had it easy._

That night, pacing around his room with a cigarette in hand, Jiyong thinks for the first time that perhaps rehab wasn’t such a bad idea.

The next day, Jiyong tries to take a shower, avoiding every single mirror in his house. But he does catch a glimpse of himself. And when he does, he breaks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” Minho says with his whole chest, and bows a ninety degrees.
> 
> Jiyong feels a sting in his gut, a feeling he can’t quite identify. Whatever it is, it makes him want to forgive Minho.
> 
> He doesn’t trust this feeling. He needs to hear Minho out first.

He has to see Minho at their individual shoots. He only hopes he’d be able to look at him without vomiting.

After they’re done, though, Minho approaches Jiyong, asking to talk. Jiyong’s stomach flips.

“Sure,” he says nonetheless, though makes sure to use an icy tone.

“I’ve been thinking,” Minho says. “I thought about it all night.”

 _Funny_ , Jiyong thinks. He stays quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Minho says with his whole chest, and bows a ninety degrees.

Jiyong feels a sting in his gut, a feeling he can’t quite identify. Whatever it is, it makes him want to forgive Minho.

He doesn’t trust this feeling. He needs to hear Minho out first.

Minho straightens up, begins fidgeting with his sleeve. “I don’t want us to be on bad terms. We still need to work together, to finish this project. I’m really sorry for overreacting and saying that terrible thing, but I want us to make up.”

The apology sounds rehearsed. Knowing Minho, he probably thought it up in detail beforehand. Jiyong crosses his arms.

“I accept your apology. But Minho, I need you to understand me on this. I need you to understand why you overreacted.”

Minho grimaced, balling his fist around his sleeve. “ _You_ know why _I_ overreacted?”

Jiyong nods stiffly. “I believe I do, yes. See, you completely misunderstood my point. Minho, I did not say that aesthetics were the root of your problem. I was just saying that you had a fucked up attitude towards beauty, and you can’t argue there. But I know perfectly well that… that eating disorders aren’t caused by aesthetics, okay? Nor was I trying to fix you.” He pauses. “I can’t fix anyone, kid. I can’t even fix myself.”

Minho’s jaw is clenched so tight, his teeth might break. “I guess we can agree to disagree.”

Jiyong lets out an exasperated sigh. “I guess so.”

“You don’t think you have anything to apologize for?”

Jiyong raises his eyebrows.

“I fucked up, I did,” Minho says. “But you kicked me out of your car. That was really fucking dramatic.”

Jiyong straightens up as if stung. He did not expect to be called out. “I—Yeah, I supposed it was.”

Minho now crosses his arms as well. “So?”

“I’m… sorry. I’m sorry, Minho.” Jiyong gives a small bow.

“You’re forgiven. You can make it up to me by taking me home today—all the way this time. I still don’t have the car.”

Jiyong blinks, then smiles. “You’ve got it. Good job on standing up to me by the way.”

Jiyong doesn’t wait around to see Minho’s reaction to his last remark.

They are silent in the car. Jiyong can hardly breathe. He hates it, he hates how awkward it is between them, even when they’ve made up.

He’s grateful to Minho when he speaks,

“It may be odd to bring up now, but I wanted to tell you something.”

He waits, but Jiyong doesn’t respond verbally. He only nods.

“It’s good news,” Minho continues. “...I don’t know why I feel so bad.”

“Okay…”

“I talked to Seunghyun. About seeing a therapist.”

Jiyong gives Minho a quick glance. At last he gets to sigh with relief. “You’re right, that _is_ good news.”

Minho shakes his head. “I’m kinda—scared? I don’t know…”

“It’s normal to feel that way, Minho. Therapy is… It’s fucked. At first you might even feel worse because it’s all about uncovering the shit you don’t wanna admit to yourself. But it’ll—it gets better. I know everyone says that, but it does, especially after you have already taken this step.”

Minho nods, clutching the hem of his shirt tightly. “I know… God I really hope this pays off.”

“It will.”

Minho clears his throat. “I’ll also be seeing a psychiatrist. Seunghyun thought that would be useful since the problem at hand is anxiety. He said the medication for it is quite effective… He said that it's best to combine therapy and medication.”

Jiyong nods. “I’m really glad you did this. You’ll be fine, Min.”

Without thinking, Jiyong reaches out a hand and rests it on Minho’s thigh encouragingly.

Minho sinks in his seat, but says nothing.

When Jiyong realizes what he did, when he realizes that this isn’t one of his old friends who are all used to affection, he freezes up. He damn near crashes the car out of embarrassment and bewilderment. He immediately removes his hand, gripping the wheel tightly.

“Sorry,” he breathes.

“It’s fine..”

“I’m just—used to it—” Stop talking. “—with my friends—” You’re only making it worse, _stop talking_. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Just as Minho says this Jiyong, thankfully, pulls up.

When he dares to steal a glance at Minho, he sees that his ears are crimson. Poor kid must be dying of discomfort.

Moron. What was he _thinking_?

Minho isn’t leaving the car. Why isn’t he leaving?

“I’ll tell you how my appointment goes. Well—appointments.”

“Yeah—thanks.” _Thanks_? Fucking idiot.

Minho isn’t leaving. He’s bouncing his leg.

“See you at the rehearsal.” He leaves at last.

They’re filming their last scene for the music video. The set is the same as it was for their photoshoot, with the bed and the dim lights. Soonyi is their director again. Their instructions for this scene are to lie on the bed and chat.

“The conversation won’t be picked up,” Soonyi had said. “You’re supposed to look relaxed, so just talk about whatever.”

And that’s exactly what they’re doing.

Jiyong has his arm bent at the elbow, head propped up in his hand. Minho looks up at him.

“I wanted to thank you, for encouraging me to get help,” he says.

Jiyong looks at him in confusion.

“For my anxiety,” Minho clarifies.

Jiyong nods. Having gotten caught up with Minho’s eating issues almost made him forget about the other side of it.

“You chose a weird time to thank me, but I’ll take it.”

Minho averts his gaze, looking at the ceiling. “I was just thinking about how… well, the medication is working. I’m not sure about therapy, I might need to find someone else, but overall… I’m doing better.”

“I’m glad,” Jiyong says.

Minho opens his mouth as if to say something else, but he’s interrupted by Soonyi,

“You’re doing great guys! Jiyong, touch his face.”

Minho chokes. “What—?”

Jiyong chuckles. “It’s okay. Trust me.” Jiyong rests his forearm on the pillow by Minho’s head for balance. He leans in and carefully runs his fingers through Minho’s hair. Then, he brushes Minho’s cheek with his fingertips.

Minho isn’t breathing. Jiyong leans in to whisper, “Breathe.”

Minho’s lips part and he exhales. “Jiyong—”

“Hm?” Jiyong tilts his head. There are mere millimeters between them now.

“And cut!” Soonyi calls. “Great job everybody!”

Jiyong smiles. Unwillingly, he parts from Minho and gets off the bed. He stretches and yawns. “Oh, I can’t wait to get home…”

Minho, on the other hand, stays lying still for a few more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/not.an.artist.212/)


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the shoots done and the designs out, they now have a date for the release of the album, as well as the beginning of the promotions. There will be a celebration on the day of the release, of course, but for now Jiyong wants to see Minho and only Minho.
> 
> As the person who helped him come back and rise from his, at the time, seemingly endless artistic blockade, Minho deserves to be thanked. No cameras, no friends, no grand gestures. Just the two of them and a small, symbolic gift.

With the shoots done and the designs out, they now have a date for the release of the album, as well as the beginning of the promotions. There will be a celebration on the day of the release, of course, but for now Jiyong wants to see Minho and only Minho.

As the person who helped him come back and rise from his, at the time, seemingly endless artistic blockade, Minho deserves to be thanked. No cameras, no friends, no grand gestures. Just the two of them and a small, symbolic gift.

Jiyong knocks. He hopes he remembers Minho’s room number and building correctly. He hopes to see Minho answering the door instead of some random student who would be extremely confused to see Kwon Jiyong at their dorm.

Minho does open. His expression goes from exhausted to surprised to shocked.

“Jiyong—What are you doing here?”

Hand still on the doorknob, Minho rests his other arm on the doorframe, his white t-shirt hanging loosely on his frame. He’s wearing some gray sweatpants and he’s barefoot, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly.

“How do you even know where I live?” He adds.

Jiyong grins. “You don’t remember me taking you to your room that night we hung out, when you were hammered?”

Minho stops to think about it. Then he gently slaps his forehead and nods. “Yeah… Yeah, I remember that. So that explains how, but… why? What?”

Jiyong clears his throat, making sure to straighten up. “I.. have a gift for you.”

Minho blinks. “You do? Wait, what?”

“Oh, just… A sort of celebratory gift, for the physical copies coming out. We did a pretty good job with this album so…” Jiyong clears his throat again. “Can I come in?”

Minho nods. Then he straightens up as if stung, wide eyes and tense. “Sure, uh—just a second.” And he closes the door.

Jiyong stands there, staring at the room number. How long has it been? No more than five minutes, yet it feels like a hundred awkward years.

Minho finally opens the door, smiling nervously. “Okay, you can… yeah.” He moves out of the way and Jiyong is finally let in.

The room is rather small with two beds against two opposing walls. In the middle there’s a window, with two desks side by side right underneath it. A closet in a corner, and that’s about it.

There’s one shelf that looks suspiciously like it was put together by someone inexperienced, but for now it safely holds books and what appears to be a collection of cameras, both digital and polaroids.

The room is modestly decorated, with a few posters here and there, more so on the side that Jiyong decides isn’t Minho’s when he identifies Minho’s familiar bag with pins on the other bed.

Minho seems to have made an effort to tidy up his side of the room, but Jiyong catches a stray sock rolling out from under the bed. He smiles. Neat trick. The bed is hastily made and the desk remains a mess.

“It’s…”

Minho waits for a response with a curious smile on his lips.

Jiyong meets his gaze. “I can’t even lie to you. It’s terrible. How do you live here?”

Minho shrugs. “When it’s all you’ve got, you get used to it. But I _am_ very thankful you offered me your studio.”

“Yeah… You can come live with me as far as I’m concerned,” Jiyong blurts out.

They both laugh.

Their laughs fade.

“Um, this is for you,” Jiyong says and hands Minho the bag.

Minho lifts it up, sees the logo and his eyes widen. “Please tell me it’s just the bag.”

Jiyong shrugs.

“Oh god.” Minho sits on his bed, gingerly reaching into the bag. “No fucking way.” He lifts the black leather jacket, turning it over. No pins, less zippers and pockets, much more glamorous.

“Figured you could use one,” Jiyong says, watching Minho’s awe.

“I—I can’t take this. How much did it _cost_?”

Jiyong waves him off. “It was nothing. Come on, you deserve it after all the hard work.”

Minho presses the jacket to his chest, looking down at his feet. “Well… it’s just that, now I feel silly for what I got you.”

Jiyong’s heart skips a beat. “You got me something?”

Minho nods. His cheeks are turning pink. “Just a second—” He gets up and goes to the foot of his bed, beginning to rummage through his stuff that’s on the floor.

While he waits for Minho, Jiyong looks around. He looks over the bed and the various objects scattered atop the wrinkled blanket. Books, notebooks, pens and highlighters…

Jiyong catches glimpse of a white paper poking out from behind the bed. Curious, he reaches for it and pulls it out from between the bed and the wall.

The image that Jiyong sees fills him with uneasiness. It makes his skin grow cold and his arms shake. Jiyong holds the poster firmly, fingers gripping at the edge, making it bend and fold. He feels brief tension, a wrench in the inside of his elbow, a hint of a movement: an urge to rip up the paper then and there.

But he doesn’t. He only stares.

The light reflects off the shiny surface. For something that was behind the bed, the poster isn’t dusty at all. It’s been put there recently.

Jiyong thinks about it only for a second. He is more concerned with the image.

It is of him, on stage, smiling the most dazzling smile one has ever seen. It is Kwon Jiyong in all his glory, in the spotlight, where he belongs.

Or so it looks like at first glance.

The makeup artist had done a marvelous job covering up the dark circles under his eyes and the sickly thinness of his face. But there was little anyone could do about his shirtless torso. His ribs poking out, his arms like twigs, collarbone all too prominent.

Faced with this image of himself from just two years ago, Jiyong starts to remember all the most unpleasant details of his last tour. How he had been exhausted all the time, how his sleep had been restless and weak. How, despite the amount of rest he got, he often felt completely paralyzed. How, most of the time, he didn’t have the energy to go onstage unless he was on speed. How he couldn’t eat for days, and whenever he tried to eat he got nauseous and couldn’t keep it down.

Unfortunately it is exactly those gruesome details that will always remain dominant in Jiyong’s memory of his last tour. How hopeless everything was.

Getting lost in memories like this, it’s almost impossible to remember that all of that is behind him. And suddenly he’s itchy and he feels the need to check, just in case, that he isn’t the person from the poster: lost, exhausted and ruined, putting on a fake smile for a crowd.

“Here it is! ….Fuck.”

Mino’s voice shakes Jiyong out of his daze. He looks at the boy who’s holding something behind his back. He crouches once again and puts whatever he’s been holding on the floor, behind the bed so that Jiyong can’t see.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Minho says breathlessly.

“You didn’t hide it very well,” Jiyong remarks.

“You surprised me, I didn’t have much time to figure out anything better.”

Jiyong smiles weakly.

“...Are you okay?” Minho asks. His own voice is weak, shaking.

“Yeah, of course,” Jiyong attempts to reassure. He doesn’t feel like talking about it.

Minho says nothing. He sits on the bed beside Jiyong and they sit in silence.

What is it about Song Minho that makes Jiyong want to open up? Why does he always want to speak to him?

“It just surprised me,” Jiyong blurts out. “I didn’t expect to be reminded of the wreck I was back then. To be faced with it.”

Minho is quick to apologize. Jiyong dismisses him with a shake of his head. He stands up.

He walks over to the shelf in the corner, faced with Minho’s camera collection. He picks up a polaroid, waits to see if Minho warns him against it. But he doesn’t. So Jiyong returns to the bed.

He sits close to Minho so that he’d be able to take an old-fashioned selfie. It’s a bit weird to smile in a moment like this, but they both manage, especially after Minho wraps both arms around Jiyong’s waist. After this, Jiyong finds it much easier to smile.

Jiyong takes the undeveloped photo and finds the camera’s box with a pocket for photos. He puts it there to develop. He returns to the bed.

“I just don’t understand why you hid it,” he says.

Minho shrugs. “I thought it was for the best, while we were working at least, that you didn’t know…”

Jiyong grins. “That you’re my fanboy?”

Minho’s face and ears turn red. He pulls his shirt up to cover the lower part of his face. “Oh—shut up.”

“Honestly, I could tell right away,” Jiyong gloats, grinning widely and nudging Minho. “I just didn’t wanna bring it up.”

The younger gives him a frantic, wide-eyed look. “Really?”

Jiyong shakes his head. “No. You actually hid it well. I… I guess I wouldn’t expect someone who’s a fan of mine to stand up to me, or be so… calm around me.”

Minho sighs a breath of relief, shoulders dropping, as well as his shirt. It’s stretched out a little now, and there’s a little wet patch where Minho had bitten it. With how stretched out the shirt is, Jiyong has to make an effort not to stare at Minho’s collarbone.

“That’s a relief,” Minho says, “I never wanted to make you uncomfortable, knowing that… well.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s how I recognized you, though,” he adds.

Jiyong gives him a confused look.

“Back when we first met, at the club. Remember? I found you in the bathroom.”

“Oh… God.” Jiyong shields his face, shrinking in his spot. “I remember. I never apologized for that.”

“It’s fine.”

Jiyong shakes his head. “Not only did you get me out of a shitty situation, but I was a dick to you and Jiho.” Jiyong bows his head a little. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Minho assures, bringing his hand up to pat Jiyong’s shoulder. When his hand drops, it rests atop Jiyong’s own.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.

Jiyong remembers the photo, but he doesn’t want to move.

Still, the silence is becoming uncomfortable and his wish to stay still turns into a need to move.

He gets up, unfortunately pulling his hand from underneath Minho’s. He walks over to the shelf once more, checking on the photo. A little oversaturated, but pretty nonetheless. Minho holding Jiyong, they seemed to have looked at each other when Jiyong took the photo.

His heart swells so much his chest almost hurts. He hasn’t felt this way since…

Well. Since the last time he was high.

He stands there, staring at the photo, wondering if it’s possible for a person to make you as happy as drugs did.

“Is it okay?” Minho asks.

Jiyong winces, looks at him and nods with a forced smile. “Lovely.”

He returns to his spot on the bed, showing Minho the photo. As the younger takes it, Jiyong gathers all his courage to rest his chin on Minho’s shoulder.

Minho only gives him the quickest of glances before returning to examining the photo. He acts as though his hand isn’t shaking, as though his neck and ears aren’t crimson. But Jiyong sees it all.

“Do me a favour,” Jiyong says. “Hang this up on your wall instead of the poster. Please.”

Minho nods slowly, a bit uncertainly.

“I know it’s selfish. But… I want you to have this picture of me. Us. I’ve changed. I’m not the person I was in Hong Kong.”

Minho now nods with more certainty. And it makes Jiyong’s heart leap into his throat, but Minho finds the courage to put his hand back on top of Jiyong’s, like before.

“I understand,” he says softly.

“I can only hope the change was for the better,” Jiyong whispers.

“As long as you’re working on yourself, you’re doing well,” Minho says, leaning in.

The doorknob rattles, making them both jump up and away from each other. Jiyong stands up just as the door opens.

Seungyoon first gives a loud groan, almost beginning his rant before he notices Jiyong. He waves awkwardly while Seungyoon stares between him and his roommate.

“Mr—Jiyong! What are you… what!?” Seungyoon stammers, fixing his hair.

“I just came here to… Something about work…” Jiyong stutters just as much as Seungyoon.

“Oh I didn’t give you the…” Minho trails off, looking at Jiyong worriedly.

“I forgot my phone at Jiwon’s!” Seungyoon chimes in, quite obviously lying. “I’ll be back in ten.”

As much as Jiyong likes him, he’s relieved when the boy leaves. Minho rushes to the foot of his bed again, where he seems to have abandoned whatever he’s been looking for.

Jiyong leans over to see what Minho has hidden there. He straightens up holding an open box with two little potted plants inside. A cactus and a succulent. With it Minho is also holding a folded piece of paper.

“I, uh, thought I’d give you something like this, something to take care of.” He hands Jiyong the box. “Some studies say that having something or someone to take care of helps with taking care of oneself and organizing one’s life, so…”

Jiyong takes the box, holding it tightly with both hands. He never thought a gift could make him so happy and so… so stupidly emotional.

He smiles down at the plants as if they were his damn newborns. “Thank you… Thank you, Minho. I—I’ll try not to fuck it up.” He grins, attempting to lighten the situation and kick his emotions into a basement. “I’ll try to take care of them.”

Minho nods. “And yourself, eventually,” he says. He doesn’t give Jiyong a chance to respond as he adds, “This also!” And he hands Jiyong the piece of paper.

Jiyong hugs the box with one hand to secure it as he takes the paper with his other hand, and unfolds it.

Jiyong realizes immediately that it’s a page from his sketchbook, one showing a pencil drawing of Jiyong. His head rested in his hand, looking off into the distance. Every detail is there, the bracelets, the tattoos, the earrings. The lines are neat, clean and sharp, the shading is fantastic.

Jiyong almost tears up.

He bites his tongue.

“It’s… this is amazing, Minho. Thank you so much.” Jiyong can’t help but bow in thanks.

Minho ruffles his hair. “Oh—I’m so happy you like it! Realistic portraits really aren’t my strongpoint so I was scared it would be shitty but—I practiced a lot and…”

“It’s lovely. I love it, Minho.”

They stand there, both looking away. Until Jiyong thinks, fuck it. He carefully puts the gifts on the bed, then steps forward. Quickly, he wraps his arms around Minho.

The younger is a little taken aback at first, but soon he snaps out of it and hugs back.

...They stay like that for a long time, until the doorknob rattles again. And once again, Jiyong and Minho both jump back. They smile a bit awkwardly as the door opens and Seungyoon reemerges.

“I should go,” Jiyong says, beginning to gather his stuff.

“Thanks for dropping by,” Seungyoon says, dropping onto his own bed.

Jiyong can feel Seungyoon’s gaze on his back as he goes to the door. Minho follows. At the door, Minho is the one to step forward and wrap his arms around Jiyong. Jiyong, unfortunately, is unable to hug back as his hands are busy, but he appreciates the hug all the same.

“I’ll see you at the rehearsal,” Jiyong says.

Minho nods and gives a little wave.

Then Jiyong’s off.


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, Jiyong shouldn’t have drunk so much. Not in front of Minho’s friends, not in front of _Minho._
> 
> Now he can hardly stand, which is precisely why he is sitting down.

In hindsight, Jiyong shouldn’t have drunk so much. Not in front of Minho’s friends, not in front of _Minho_.

Now he can hardly stand, which is precisely why he is sitting down.

It is the day of the album release. Or is it? Is it past midnight already? Jiyong doesn’t know.

All he knows is that a couple of hours ago him and Minho were in a restaurant celebrating with Jiyong’s friends. This, where they’re at right now, is sort of an after party. They are at the same parking lot, with the same circle of people as the last time, maybe just a few new faces.

“You sure you’re okay?” Minho, who is sitting beside Jiyong and seems ready to catch him anytime, asks.

Jiyong nods. He’s holding onto the lower part of the yellow railing, bent over, as if about to throw up.

But he actually doesn’t feel like it. The only thing making him sick is the shame.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You weren’t—supposed to see me like this. Not again…”

“It’s fine, Jiyong. You took care of me when I was shitfaced, I’m only returning the favour,” Minho says softly.

Jiyong shakes his head and it makes him a little dizzy. “No, no, this is… This is different. You’re… Fuck. I’m supposed to be a role model, aren’t I? And what am I doing? Getting fucking drunk off my ass with my younger colleague’s friends, _God…_ And you already took care of me once. I already fucked up once.”

“It’s fine—”

“I’m a mess,” Jiyong mutters.

“It’s really fine. You’ve seen me be a mess too.”

Jiyong shakes his head again. “You look up to me. Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s just how being a fan _works_. But you really…. _shouldn’t_. I am… _such_ a terrible role model.”

Minho is quiet for a second, slowly removing his hand from Jiyong’s shoulder. “You _really_ weren’t supposed to find out.”

“No, I’m… I’m glad I know. Just… Fuck. You witnessed everything bad I’ve ever done. You witnessed my OD. You’re witnessing me be an addict, fuck, you witnessed me being underweight and thought it was _pretty_?? I’m… really such a terrible fucking role model.”

“Jiyong… You’ve made mistakes, you have. But all that bad shit, that’s not at all what I picked up from you. It’s not what I look up to. I look up to your passion, your creativity, the way you always pick yourself up when something goes wrong. There’s so much to admire about you…”

Listening to all of this, Jiyong’s throat begins to burn. Why? He is not going to cry over this. It’s just the alcohol making him emotional, he knows it. Nothing to cry about here. He swallows hard.

He straightens up and turns to Minho.

“Please… Don’t be like me. Promise me that much. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. When you notice a problem… get help for it. Don’t push away people who want the best for you. Take care of your health. Be the exact opposite of me… Please.” He sniffles and adds a quiet, “ _Please_.”

Minho only smiles. He takes Jiyong by the shoulders, helping him stay upright. “If I was like you, I would be a great man. I can learn both from your victories and your mistakes. Don’t worry about me.”

There it is again, the burning in his throat.

Jiyong lets himself fall forward, and Minho quickly wraps his arms around him.

He won’t cry.

His eyes sting.

This is no time to cry.

He closes his eyes and it tickles, all the way down his cheeks.

This is no place to cry.

Jiyong grasps the front of Minho’s shirt and he simply cries.

* * *

He wakes up in complete darkness. The only source of light are the few yellow stripes stretching across the room, after having seeped through the blinds.

Jiyong sits up slowly, already feeling the aches in his body, the dizziness, the sickness. How much did he drink last night?

And… How did he get home?

He needs to get to the bottom of this. He gets up carefully, goes to the bathroom to make himself presentable, changes and goes out into the hallway. He… Doesn’t know where to start. The house seems empty enough…

Except for the art studio.

Some hip hop plays from behind the closed door. Jiyong follows the sound. He peeks inside, only to find Minho in front of a canvas, a sight Jiyong has gotten quite used to at this point. He smiles faintly, and gets in.

Jiyong clears his throat.

Minho jumps up and swings around to look at the newcomer. He smiles. “Oh, hi! You’re awake.”

Jiyong nods. “I’m sorry to get straight to the point like this, but… How… How did I get…?”

“I took you home,” Minho clarifies.

“You… stayed?”

Minho nods.

Jiyong just stands there, unsure what to say anymore. Then it occurs to him, he should probably voice his gratefulness.

“Thank you.”

Minho smiles that gentle smile of his. “No worries. I’m just returning the favour.”

Jiyong smiles faintly. “True… Oh, uh, I did say a bunch of bullshit yesterday. I just wanted to apologize—”

Minho shakes his head. “No, no it’s alright! You… I get it. We say a bunch of things when we’re drunk.”

Jiyong presses his lips together. “That’s true…” He sighs, picking up his cigarettes and going over to his beanbag while Minho continues to work.

“How’ve you been, Minho? Excited for our performances?”

Minho turns, giving a big, yet slightly uncertain smile. “Excited and nervous. I hope I do well…”

“You will. We’ve done so much work for this, there’s no way you can mess up.”

Minho nods, turning back to the canvas. For a long while, he says nothing, only working on the painting.

Then he says, without turning, “Therapy is going well too. I’m learning new coping mechanisms… Especially for spirals, I appreciate that a lot. And my meds seem to be working.”

“That’s good. Fuck—Minho, that’s amazing! I’m so relieved…”

“Things are a bit too good,” Minho mutters. “I feel like something bad will happen soon.”

“It’s just your anxiety speaking.” Jiyong leans forward on the beanbag, reaching out to pat Minho’s shoulder. The younger looks at him at last. Jiyong smiles. “Everything will be okay. You’re doing amazing and things will only get better.”

Minho smiles hesitantly. It’s a little strained, but genuine. “I hope so.”


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a knock on the door. Jiyong sits up, blinks and realizes that he ought to assume a more relaxed position. He doesn’t need people knowing that he’s just spent fifteen minutes staring at a wall.

The closer the promotions got, the more anxious Minho was. Which would’ve been normal, if it wasn’t for the panic attacks. They weren’t too bad nor did they happen too often, Minho still insisted that the meds were working and that therapy was helping, but it was enough to make Jiyong worried out of his mind.

He’d asked Minho to tell him about the coping mechanisms and exercises he’s learned in therapy, so that Jiyong too would be prepared if he needed to help, if Minho got stuck.

And it did happen, a few times. Jiyong was finally able to help, which was quite the relief. They learned to get through these attacks rather quickly.

But Jiyong was still worried, particularly about their upcoming showcase, where everything escalated.

There’s a knock on the door. Jiyong sits up, blinks and realizes that he ought to assume a more relaxed position. He doesn’t need people knowing that he’s just spent fifteen minutes staring at a wall.

He himself is nervous as well. As it often is with the two of them, Minho’s anxiousness gets transferred onto Jiyong. But other than that, he has his own reasons to be nervous.

Now though, he sits back on the couch, crosses his legs and calls out, “Come in.”

The door opens and Minho pokes his head in. Jiyong raises his eyebrows at him. The look seems to stir Minho out of some thought, and he slips inside, closes the door and leans against it.

He’s slumped over and his head is bowed and his shoulders shake, but the work of the stylist shines through. He’s wearing a transparent black button-up, with a few chainlets around his neck. His jeans are tight and leather, and he has combat boots on.

And yet, next to all of this what attracts Jiyong’s attention more than anything is the rapid rising and falling of his chest, the fact that his breathing is far too audible and heavy. It sets off alarms everywhere in Jiyong’s mind. He straightens up and makes some room on the couch.

“Wanna sit down?”

Minho nods. He crosses the room in two steps and lands heavily onto the cushions, elbows resting on his knees.

Jiyong knows there’s no use asking what’s wrong. He knows Minho will speak when and if he decides.

But Jiyong doesn’t like the silence, broken only by Minho’s breaths. He isn’t sure if he should say or do something, if interfering would do any good or make things worse.

Minho raises his hand to his face and Jiyong instinctively grabs his wrist midway, startling him. Jiyong feels Minho’s hand trembling in his hold. Minho stares at Jiyong, wide eyed and frozen.

“You’ll mess up your makeup. Daesung gets mad about that.”

Minho blinks. He looks from Jiyong to their hands then back up at Jiyong. He just nods.

And Jiyong can only assume he’s been squeezing his eyes shut because there’s already the tiniest smudge under his eye. Luckily for Minho, Jiyong has become quite exceptional at fixing those kinds of messes.

He lets go of Minho’s hand, goes to get a tissue. He stands in front of Minho, tips his head back with a finger under his chin.

“I once fell asleep with a full face of makeup with only forty minutes until the concert. Daesung nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to fix it in time,” Jiyong talks while he gently pads under Minho’s eye to make the little smudge disappear. “He didn’t let me hear the end of it.”

Minho doesn’t respond and Jiyong figures it’s for the best to leave it. He goes to throw the tissue away.

“Do you ever get nervous before performances?”

The question startles Jiyong. Not only the suddenness of Minho’s voice, but the inquiry itself. He doesn’t have a good answer.

The brutally honest one would be a simple _no_ —Jiyong has had his first performance at the age of seven and has been on or around stages ever since—but he sees that Minho needs the comfort.

However, the longer he stays silent, the less sincere whatever he says will sound, so he utters a hasty, “Of course. Don’t we all?”

Minho chuckles and he sounds like he’s choking. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. It was a stupid question anyway.”

“It wasn’t a stupid question.” Jiyong sits back down, and maybe it’s gravity playing tricks on him but this time when he does there is hardly any space between him and Minho. “Truth is…” Jiyong looks at the ceiling.

Truth is, the truth would set them apart. Jiyong doesn’t want Minho to idolize him more than he already does. “I’m pretty nervous right now, actually.”

Minho looks to the side, and perhaps the lack of space between them hits him so hard that he looks away immediately. He huffs. “Sure.” His tone says, _I’ll play along_.

“For real. It’s my first time on stage after Hong Kong.”

At this, Minho’s smugness fades. “Oh. That’s right,” he speaks barely audibly.

“I’m just saying, I know how you feel.”

And they’re silent again. Jiyong picks at the cross on his bracelet. It slips from between his fingers and he stares instead at the white scar running along the inside of his wrist, along his tendon. His souvenir from Hong Kong. He still doesn’t know what exactly happened, all anyone knows is that he arrived to the hospital with the piece of glass stuck in his arm.

Minho laughs again and although he doesn’t sound like he’s suffocating anymore, it still startles Jiyong.

“Then we’re both fucked. We can’t help each other.”

Jiyong presses his lips together remembering that indeed, Minho didn’t only come here for sympathy. He likely needed some advice as well.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Jiyong says. “It helps knowing that I’m not going out there alone.”

Minho looks at him, and this time he doesn’t avert his gaze. Jiyong’s is fixated on the inside of his arm, running his fingers over the scar. “You were born to do this, Minho. I’ve never seen someone who belongs onstage as much as you do.”

Minho is silent for a beat. “Even you?”

Jiyong snorts. “Even me.”

At this, Minho ducks his head and smiles to himself.

They sit in silence until they get notified that they have twenty more minutes.

“We should go,” Jiyong says. Minho nods. When he stands, he seems to be anything but agitated. For once, Minho has gotten his nervous ticks in check and for once, Jiyong is the one who can’t stop fidgeting.

Because a thought has entered his mind, and it won’t leave.

In the hallway, having left Jiyong’s dressing room, he starts to lag behind. He feels unsteady on his feet. He doesn’t want to leave this hallway, where Minho and him are still shielded away from the bustling and buzzing, chatting and shouting.

Minho notices Jiyong falling behind and he stops, turns around and gives him a concerned look. “Everything okay?”

Jiyong nods, staring ahead.

The thought gets louder and louder, gets closer and closer until Jiyong can taste it on his lips.

He looks up at Minho. “I can give you a lucky charm, if you want.”

He isn’t sure what kind of a reaction he was expecting, but a frown of pure confusion wasn’t it. Perhaps Jiyong hoped for Minho to be excited.

“Sure…” He steps closer, waiting.

Jiyong speaks as if there is no air in his lungs. “You have to close your eyes.”

Although a little wary, Minho does so nevertheless. He opens his palm.

Jiyong has to be mad to do what he intends to. But there’s no going back.

He steps closer, has to tiptoe to be able to reach Minho’s lips.

Minho’s eyes snap open and the startled little noise from the back of his throat makes Jiyong realize that this was a bad idea.

And then there are arms around his waist, and he’s being pulled closer. Minho’s lip ring presses against Jiyong’s bottom lip and he never intended for it to get this far, but he can taste Minho’s tongue.

It’s only a brief burst and Jiyong pulls back, as voices from nearby get louder, reminding him that they have somewhere to be.

Bewildered by his own actions, Jiyong stares up at Minho. He’s smiling. He’s smiling so wide that his cheeks make his eyes disappear. He sways a little, brings a hand up to cover his goofy grin. He doesn’t speak, only looks at Jiyong with a spark in his eyes that Jiyong doesn’t dare assume to be fondness.

Invisible hands grip at Jiyong’s throat, a fist closes around his heart and something sits on his chest. He clears his throat, rubs his chest as if that would alleviate the pressure. “We have to…” He stares down, at Minho’s collarbone and the little weather icons lining his throat.

Minho whips around, looks down the hall at the tireless mess of people that would soon swallow them both in final preparations.

He turns back around, nods. “Yeah.” He’s motionless for a second, silent as if calculating, however this brief sternness melts away immediately as he grabs Jiyong’s hand.

Jiyong is dizzy. A buzzing noise fills his head. No matter how much he blinks, his vision won’t clear. He is unable to pull himself from the surreal moment in the hallway and back into reality.

The bounce in Minho’s step startles him. Every little glance he steals, every smile he gives, the way his anxiousness seems to have morphed into this nervous excitement. The way he won’t let go of Jiyong’s hand. All of it makes Jiyong’s skin crawl, shoots a warning shiver down his spine in anticipation of something horrible. Or perhaps it’s merely a reaction to something horrible that has already happened.

Because there is Minho, unable to take his eyes off of him, and Jiyong asks himself _what the hell have I done?_

That simple kiss he gave Minho without thinking much of it seems to have triggered something in him that Jiyong is, simply put, afraid of.

Minho refuses to let go of his hand. The staff is too busy to notice or care. As long as they can do their job, it doesn’t matter.

Jiyong feels himself drifting away, from this moment, from the noise, from instructions, from Minho’s hand in his. He walks blindly, a path he’s walked so many times before, under the stage, past poles and columns, towards the platforms.

As he’s stirred towards his own, his hand slips out of Minho’s. As soon as this happens, the invisible hands close around his throat and the pressure sits on his chest and he can’t breathe. He’s positioned onto the platform and he looks to the side, at Minho, catches his lost gaze. His hand is now in a tight fist instead and when he smiles, it’s strained. Jiyong smiles back, just as forcefully. This is the last they see of each other before the platform starts to rise.

Immediately after stepping on stage Jiyong becomes grateful that they only have one song to perform. The lights are too bright, moving too rapidly. Jiyong’s pulse shoots up, he begins to lose his breath. He needs to put in enormous amounts of effort into breathing, into singing without fucking up. He can’t be here, he can’t stand in the spotlight, not with everything moving and screaming around him.

It’s too much like his bad trips. It’s too much like Hong Kong.

Jiyong begins to choke. He can’t even think about whether it’s noticeable to the audience. He pulls through the last couple of notes and stands on the platform again.

As soon as he’s lowered down, Jiyong rips out his earpiece. He pushes through the staff, not letting anyone approach him.

He runs. He sprints towards his dressing room, and the moment anyone tries to stop him, to ask him anything, to tell him anything, Jiyong’s panic pikes up.

“Don’t—LEAVE ME ALONE!”

He covers his ears. He shoulders the door open, then kicks it shut.

Jiyong stumbles to the corner of the small room, in-between the wall and the couch. Jiyong curls up in there, hugging his knees.

He cries.

He can’t get images out of his head. Lights flashing, shapes changing before his eyes, infernal images like Bosch’s _Hell_. Still covering his ears, Jiyong sobs, he has no idea how loudly.

But soon, much to his dread, the door opens. Then again, to his relief, the person that comes in is Seunghyun.

Jiyong raises his head, only a little. “Please—” He chokes. He has no idea what he’s asking for.

Seunghyun approaches and takes Jiyong by the shoulders. He lifts him up, sits him down onto the couch. Seunghyun pushes Jiyong’s head between his knees and tells him to breathe. Seunghyun counts for him. Seunghyun tells him to name five things he can see, four things he can touch, three things he can hear, two things he can smell and one thing he can taste.

Jiyong does his best to follow because he absolutely despises feeling like this.

Eventually, he calms down. It takes quite the while, with lots of effort on Seunghyun’s side, pulling every tactic out of his sleeve, but Jiyong does calm down.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Seunghyun asks tiredly.

“No,” Jiyong says, getting up. He’s still shaking, but he needs to change quickly and leave. He needs to _leave_.

“Alright, I understand,” Seunghyun says, getting up to grab some of Jiyong’s liquor he always has in his dressing rooms.

When Jiyong has changed, he rushes for the door.

But then he stops. He turns around and walks up to an exasperated and exhausted Seunghyun. Jiyong embraces him tightly.

“I’m sorry… I’ve been difficult lately.”

Seunghyun practically picks Jiyong up while hugging back. “It’s fine. You’re going through a bunch of shit.”

“I don’t want to be difficult. That’s why—that’s why I didn’t want to talk to you guys after rehab. That’s why I disappeared.”

“You don’t have to disappear. We can handle it. You’ll get better and things will be okay,” Seunghyun says tiredly, weakly, as if he himself doesn’t believe it.

“Yeah,” Jiyong says. He pulls away. “I, uh. I want to—I need to leave. Just—if Minho asks, tell him I wasn’t well. I’m really not…”

Seunghyun nods. “I understand.” He pauses, then kisses Jiyong’s forehead. “Be safe, okay?”

Jiyong nods. Then he rushes out the door.


	15. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers how the last time he had a bad depressive episode, Minho was the one who came to help. This time Jiyong is all alone because Minho is gone, he’s fucking gone and it’s all Jiyong’s fault.

He sleeps through the whole day.

He spends the night pacing, smoking and thinking, like the time he fought with Minho.

All that thinking leads him to only one conclusion.

He fucked up, badly. He shouldn’t have kissed Minho, not with all the implications it carries.

At the mere thought of having something, anything with Minho, Jiyong’s stomach flips. Not because of Minho, no, he’s… absolutely wonderful.

But that _is_ the problem. He’s too young, he’s too good. He’s got his own problems to deal with, he doesn’t need an almost thirty year old depressed addict on his hands. The last thing Jiyong wants is to be a burden.

And now… What is he to do?

He needs to… He needs to let Minho down easy. He just needs to be honest.

Jiyong waits for the sunrise, lying on his couch. He startles when the door starts to unlock, and it takes him a second to remember that another person has the keys to his house. Jiyong sits up frantically, realizing that he looks like the raised dead and Minho is about to walk in.

When he does, he’s smiling. Soon though, his smile falls. “Oh, hey, uh… You look…”

Jiyong tries to fix his hair at least. He waits for Minho’s judgment.

“...like you haven’t slept.”

“It’s because I haven’t,” Jiyong admits.

Minho walks up to him and without any hesitation takes Jiyong by the waist and kisses him.

Jiyong flinches and pushes him away.

“Woah—” Minho pulls back, immediately beginning to fidget with his jacket’s zippers. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“It’s fine.” Jiyong takes a deep breath. “Minho, we need to talk.”

Minho nods, crossing his arms, shoulders tense. “Sure… I mean, I was gonna ask you about yesterday. You just… ran off. I was wondering if you’re okay…”

Jiyong swallows hard. “I’m not okay, actually. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” He pauses for another breath. “I wanted to talk about what happened last night.”

“Yeah.” Minho says in a small voice.

“Listen… That was a mistake, okay? I didn’t really mean anything by it.” As he gets no reaction after saying that, Jiyong shrugs and adds, “I just didn’t want you to get any ideas.”

Minho’s breathing is audible now. It’s making Jiyong uneasy.

“Good thing you remembered to tell me _now_.”

His tone cuts through Jiyong, making him flinch. “I couldn’t tell you before, I didn’t want to upset you before the performance! Fuck, you were already feeling bad!”

Minho doesn’t say anything, now, but he keeps glaring at Jiyong. “So why the fuck did you kiss me, then?”

Jiyong freezes. Out of all the overthinking he did, this is the one thing he didn’t think about. “It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, okay?”

“Don’t fucking lie! You served me this whole cute little story, that had to have been planned!”

Jiyong clenches his fists. “It was not planned and—so what if it was? I just did it because I fucking wanted to! I knew I had to do something, you were freaking out!” Jiyong’s palms are sweaty, his heart is racing. Usually lying doesn’t get him that worked up. Then again, he doesn’t remember ever lying for this long on such a great scale.

Minho is frowning, staring at him in confusion. Then he shakes his head sharply. “You keep changing your story. You’re lying.”

Jiyong says nothing, but he doesn’t look away either. It would be admitting defeat.

“I actually believe you though,” Minho says, suddenly straightening up and stepping towards Jiyong. “I believe that you kissed me simply _because you wanted to_. It’s just like you, to do whatever you want regardless of the other person’s feelings.”

Minho takes a deep breath. “You know what I think? I think you did it because knowing that I’m your fan made you think that I wouldn’t turn you down. You used me.”

“That’s not true,” Jiyong shoots. But he can’t tell Minho what _is_ the truth, so he doesn’t elaborate.

“Then _why_!?”

For both their sakes’, that can of worms needs to remain unopened. Jiyong remains silent.

As Jiyong continues to say nothing, Minho simply turns on his heel and leaves.

* * *

It’s for the better. Minho is now safe, now that he’s away from Jiyong. It’s better off this way.

So why can’t Jiyong shake off the heaviness? Invisible hands are choking him, leaving him gagging on the floor. Sprawled out or curled up he can’t breathe, no matter what he does. The weight of a feeling sits heavy on his chest and it’s pushing, and pushing, threatening to shatter his ribcage. What feeling, Jiyong doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s choking.

He gasps. He lets out a sob. His vision is blurry, his cheeks are wet. At the moment he is the most pathetic person in the world.

He remembers how the last time he had a bad depressive episode, Minho was the one who came to help. This time Jiyong is all alone because Minho is gone, he’s fucking _gone_ and it’s all Jiyong’s fault.

He won’t get to listen to him musing about the future again. He won’t get to see him in the recording booth, dancing to the tunes of his own song. He won’t hear him laugh or see him smile. He won’t get to have his heartbeat increased by accidental, soft touches.

If what he’s done was the right thing, why can’t Jiyong stop thinking about him? Can’t he find solace in the fact that Minho will be better off without him? Why is the thought of Minho being gone so suffocating?

There’s only one other way Jiyong can think to drown out this feeling.

Just this once. He needs it, just tonight.

He calls Minso.

Minso, Seojun and Shincho are with him. He called them and told them to call their friends. He told them that they would be going to Octagon. But before that, the four of them hang out at Jiyong’s place, inhaling white lines off his coffee table.

The three of them are laughing at some impression Shincho is doing, meanwhile Jiyong is pacing the room, phone in hand.

The world around him is already spinning, he can already hear his own heartbeat. The music Minso has put on is turning into dripping paint. All around him it swirls and splashes, creating new colours, colours Jiyong has never seen before. He hears the music through water, miles and miles away. It’s quiet and soothing and someone is calling his name.

Minho…

It’s Minho.

Jiyong needs to tell him. He needs to tell him the truth. He doesn’t want Minho to hate him.

With some difficulty, he dials the number.

Minho doesn’t answer and Jiyong gets sent to voicemail.

He sighs into the mic. “Hey, Min,” he speaks, staring at the ceiling. “I wanted to… I needed to tell you something. You’re right. I lied. The truth is… I kissed you because I’m in love with you. _Fuck_.” Jiyong sniffles, wipes his eyes. “I love you… But... I lied to you because… I’m scared. I don’t want you to like me. I’m not… ready… for a relationship. Or anything close to it. But I did lie—”

There’s a hand on Jiyong’s shoulder. It’s Seojun.

“Darling, the message is over. You’re no longer recording.”

Has he been listening? Jiyong doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He can’t think. He can’t _think_.

Seojun gently pries Jiyong’s phone out of his hand. “Come on, let’s get you cheered up. You need to stop thinking about that kid. Come on.” Stirring him by the shoulder, Seojun pushes Jiyong to his knees in front of the coffee table where four lines have been laid out.

Jiyong doesn’t think about it. He only takes the rolled up bill and inhales.

* * *

Daesung stayed up on accident. He doesn’t do it often, but tonight in particular he had some work to finish and it stretched out into the night. Then he began scrolling on his phone and time slipped by even more quickly.

Once he came across Jiyong’s instagram story however, time seemed to stop altogether. Daesung has been replaying the video posted onto Jiyong’s private account, running his hand through his hair in utter distress.

The video is of Jiyong, Daesung’s friend, Daesung’s _best friend_ , inhaling a line of white powder off someone’s phone, using a rolled up hundred dollar bill. In the video Jiyong straightens up and laughs, gets grabbed by a person Daesung has never seen before in Jiyong’s proximity, and finally gets kissed before the video cuts off.

It makes Daesung’s stomach flip. His skin crawls, his blood runs cold. He can’t move, he can’t do anything other than pull his hair.

He watches the video once more before finally letting the story switch.

But the next one is also Jiyong’s, this time from his public account. The content is much tamer, a group selfie including that person who kissed Jiyong in the previous video, but one detail interests Daesung the most. There’s a location.

Octagon. He isn’t surprised.

Without thinking, Daesung gets up from the couch, goes to get dressed. He makes sure to remove himself from the bedroom quietly as his fiancé is sleeping there. He isn’t going to wake him up; Seunghyun exhausts himself so often and this was the one day Daesung got him to go to bed earlier.

Before leaving though, Daesung stands in the doorway of their bedroom, wishing he could stay. He takes a deep breath and braces himself for what he has to do.

* * *

The air is stuffy and smoke filled, making it difficult to breathe. It’s dark with only occasional flashes of light.

He isn’t exactly experienced in partying, not like his friend whom he is trying to find, but Daesung knows one thing for sure: he won’t find Jiyong in the midst of the chaos. The very least his search is narrowed down to areas lined with velvet ropes.

He continues pushing, checking, to no avail. Daesung’s throat is closing up, his eyes water from all the smoke around him. He stops in his tracks, looks around desperately as if that would ever help. He is determined not to leave without Jiyong, but he is overtaken with panic. He stands to the side, still looking around, trying to catch a breath but all he can inhale is smoke.

As Daesung pushes off the wall, someone collides with his left shoulder. The person holds onto Daesung’s arm for balance and yells an apology that he can hardly tell apart.

Their eyes meet and the man’s face goes slack.

“What’re you doing here?” The question is immediate and sincerely sharp, no holding back out of politeness.

Daesung decides to return the favour and not beat around the bush either. “Shincho. Where’s Jiyong?”

At this point Shincho has removed his hand from Daesung’s and is trying to step away into the crowd. Daesung inches forward, craning his neck as if he’s just trying to hear what the other is saying.

“I’ve heard he’s with some friends—” Shincho stutters, gaze trailing from Daesung’s face down to his arms then back up, then to the side.

“I know you were with him, Shincho.” When he straightens up, Daesung stands even taller than Shincho who is having trouble standing up straight as is.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he blurts out, raising his hands as if in surrender. He points to an elevated platform in the far corner of the club. “But—I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” is the last thing Daesung tells Shincho before he starts making his way to where he’d pointed.

By the time Daesung reaches the platform his blood is boiling. As soon as he steps onto it there’s a hand on his shoulder and Daesung is ready to punch the bouncer who is yelling over the music, telling him that he can’t go up there. Daesung pushes back, but attempting to reconnect with the pacifist in him, gathers his breath to try and explain.

In that moment however, someone approaches. Bleached hair, ripped jeans, a pair of vans stumbles over. Jiyong is smiling, waving the bouncer off and opening his arms towards Daesung, asking for a hug.

He wants to act tough. He wants to be angry, to just grab Jiyong and drag him outside, yell at him even. That’s never been him. Even in the middle of this hell, he wraps his arms around his friend and holds him close, relieved that he’s alright—as alright as he can be.

“Seungseungie!” Jiyong tugs on Daesung’s hand, pulling him onto the platform, towards the few scattered couches and the bar. “I didn’t know you’d—I’m so glad you’re here!”

“I’m not staying,” Daesung says, digging in his heels.

Jiyong continues to tug, even though Daesung is not moving. As if he hasn’t said anything, Jiyong keeps talking, “Where’s Seunghyun? It would be so much more fun if all of you were here.”

Daesung shakes his head. “Jiyong.” No response. He twists his hand out of the elder’s and instead takes him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up.

Jiyong is swaying even as he is being held up, staring right through Daesung, an empty look he knows all too well and hates from the depths of his soul.

“I’m not staying,” he repeats, louder. “I’m here to take you home.”

There is no response for a while. Jiyong blinks, frowns. “I don’t wanna go—what!? I’m not going home, I’m here with friends, I’m not going home.”

Daesung throws a nervous glance around. Jiyong’s company has started to take notice of this interaction and there’s an uncomfortable amount of eyes on the two of them.

Minso and the person who kissed Jiyong in the video walk up to them. The man wraps his arms around Jiyong’s waist loosely, pressing up against him from behind.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“Shut up Seojun,” Jiyong says. “Let go of me,” he then says, unclear whether he’s speaking to Seojun or Daesung. Both of them are reluctant to comply.

Jiyong begins to squirm, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. _“Let go!”_

It’s the yelling that makes them both comply. Jiyong stumbles, but when Daesung offers a hand he shoves him away, or tries to.

Daesung stands there, realizing that Jiyong means to walk away without addressing his presence any further. Does he think Daesung will just leave? It takes him a second to remember that Jiyong isn’t thinking at all, not correctly anyway.

Daesung catches up with him easily, takes him by the wrist.

When Jiyong spins around, Daesung says, “We’re leaving.”

Jiyong’s face contorts and he tries to free his arm. “No, _you_ go if you want to! Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Yeah,” Seojun cuts in, trying to approach. “Don’t be such a buzzkill Seungie.”

It isn’t only Daesung’s glare that makes him back off, it’s also Jiyong accidentally elbowing him in the chest in his attempts to break free. After this, however, Jiyong stops trying. He stands at Daesung’s side, hitting his forehead against the younger’s shoulder.

“You aren’t helping him, Daesung,” Minso says, taking a hold of Seojun and pulling him to the side. “You don’t _know_ how to help him.”

Her stare is empty, somewhat resembling Jiyong’s own.

Daesung knows she wasn’t the one who had dragged Jiyong into this realm all those years ago, but in this moment it is Minso’s entitlement despite being completely ignorant to Jiyong’s situation, it’s her accusing Daesung of inexperience when she’s the one who’s been in Jiyong’s life for way shorter, that makes him livid.

He stops to take a deep breath. He isn’t there to pick a fight, not unless he has to. “And you do? _Please_. Your job is fucking people up. Stay the fuck away from him.”

Minso smiles, faint and dazed but malicious nonetheless. “I will, but _he_ might come to _me_.”

Daesung cracks his knuckles. He rips his detestful gaze from the girl and turns to Jiyong instead. “Let’s go.”

“No.”

Daesung sighs. Picking Jiyong up was easy enough even before he grew malnourished. Daesung effortlessly throws him over his shoulder.

_“Put me down!”_ He screams. Daesung pretends not to hear.

Daesung looks around in hopes of finding any of Jiyong’s belongings. He knows that even if he didn’t manage to find anything, Jiyong would most likely be perfectly okay; he was well off enough to compensate for anything lost. Still, Daesung feels the responsibility to at least try.

He feels Jiyong’s phone in his back pocket, so at least that’s secured. Daesung spots a familiar looking jacket on one of the couches, which he identifies as Jiyong’s upon closer inspection. He grabs it and starts pushing through the crowd.

On their way out, Jiyong tries to kick, but gives up on that quickly enough. He pounds his fists weakly against Daesung’s back. He winces a few times, as if trying to writhe out of Daesung’s hold, but to no avail.

He sobs. He chokes on his own tears.

“Put me down.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

_“Please.”_

Daesung is now grateful for the loudness of the club. The bone-shaking beat drowns out Jiyong’s weeping.

He puts Jiyong down by the car with the intention of putting him into the passenger seat, but Jiyong pushes hard against Daesung’s chest. It’s mostly due to the element of surprise that he manages to make Daesung stagger backwards.

“Why are you here?” Jiyong chokes.

Regaining his footing, Daesung steps forward cautiously. “I was worried about you. Ji… Those people aren’t your friends. They wouldn’t have taken care of you, they would have—”

Jiyong’s laugh is soaked in disbelief and irony. “You’re policing who my friends are? That’s what you’re doing?” He sways, closes his eyes with his brows furrowed. In the end though he shakes his head and simply says, “Fuck you. Fuck you Daesung.”

He’s learned not to take these words to heart. He’s used to Jiyong’s intoxication induced insensitivity. “Get into the car,” Daesung says calmly.

“Fuck you,” Jiyong repeats.

Daesung balls his fist. “The people who abandon their lives at four am in the fucking morning to come pick your high ass up from whatever dump you ended up in are your friends. Us, who care about your health, who—who lose sleep over whether you’re fine—”

“Maybe,” Jiyong yells, opening his arms. “You should all get a fucking life! And stop messing with mine!”

“Stop shouting,” Daesung speaks flatly. “Get in the car.”

Jiyong stands in his spot, just swaying, staring at the ground. He doesn’t react when Daesung steps closer. He gently nudges Jiyong towards the open door, pushes him further until he stumbles into the seat. Daesung helps put his jacket and the seatbelt on then closes the door.

Once he’s in his own seat, he notices Jiyong tapping his foot and violently pulling his zipper up and down. Daesung doesn’t address this. He starts the car and drives off.

At a red light, he asks, “What did you take?”

Jiyong stares out the window, shakes his head.

“Jiyong what was it?”

“What is it to you?” Jiyong asks hoarsely.

“I want to know, so I know what the fuck to do with you, and what to expect from you tomorrow.”

“What you should do with me is—” Jiyong gags. “—take me home and leave.”

“We both know that’s not happening.”

The banging noise startles Daesung. He whips his head to the side before returning his eyes on the road, but that quick look was enough to tell him that Jiyong did, in fact, smack his head against the window.

“Stooop, _stop_ trying to babysit me.” There’s another bang and this time what Daesung sees is Jiyong’s fist on the window frame. “I am not your patient.”

“No, but you’re my friend. Who, by the way, has no regard for his own well-being.”

Jiyong doesn’t respond to this. He keeps his forehead on the window, staring out of it.

“Pull over,” he speaks after a while.

Daesung doesn’t need to be told twice.

As soon as the car comes to a stop, Jiyong simply leans out of it to expel all the contents of his digestive system onto the side of the road. While waiting for him to finish, listening to his gagging, Daesung takes a water bottle out of the backpack he’d taken with him precisely for this occasion.

Jiyong returns to his seat. He keeps his hand on the door handle for a second more, contemplating.

“You okay?” Daesung asks, staring ahead.

“Yeah—for now,” Jiyong speaks, voice lower than before. He closes the door.

Handing him the water bottle, Daesung asks again, “What did you take?”

Jiyong sips the tiniest bit and puts the bottle in his lap. He pulls his knees to his chest. “Speed.”

Daesung drives off once again. “And?”

Jiyong stays silent for a couple of kilometers.

“And?” Daesung repeats, louder.

“MDMA,” Jiyong mutters.

“How much did you drink in between?”

Jiyong rubs a hand over his face, then balls his fist in his hair. “Not much.”

Daesung shoots him a look.

“I didn’t!” Jiyong whines defensively. “Fuck!” He smacks his head against the window again.

“Stop that,” Daesung says, reaching over and taking Jiyong by the shoulder to pull him in a more upright position, away from the window.

Daesung sighs, gripping the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask Jiyong about smoking, he already knows that he likely didn’t spend a single minute without a lit cigarette.

“You’re not making this any easier for yourself,” he says.

Jiyong is silent. He still stares out the window. He slides to the side, lets his head rest against the window, this time gently.

“I’m not going back to rehab.”

Daesung throws a concerned look Jiyong’s way. His voice is quiet, shaky, yet still empty. Daesung swallows.

“No one said anything about rehab, Jiyong.”

But he only continues as if Daesung had said nothing, “You’re not shipping me off again.” He keeps shaking his head. “I know you just want to get rid of me. I won’t—” He sits up suddenly, leans back against the seat. “If you want to get rid of me so badly, why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Because we aren’t shipping you off,” Daesung speaks calmly, even though he isn’t sure if Jiyong can hear him, or if he hears something else entirely. “We don’t want to get rid of you we—we just want you to get better.”

Jiyong buries his face in his hands. “I don’t wanna go back.”

This time, Daesung doesn’t respond.

“It was just this once. It was—I had a terrible day. I wasn’t—feeling well, I needed… It was just this once I _promise_ …”

“Yongie, I’m not saying anything,” Daesung speaks softly.

Jiyong looks at him with an expression of pure surprise and bewilderment. He exhales, stomps his foot before continuing to bounce it anxiously. “Fuck…”

Daesung has nothing else to ask. He knows already what to do, how to care for Jiyong. He knows that any attempts at conversing would be futile. Therefore, he stays quiet. Thankfully, Jiyong does too.

The tapping of Jiyong’s foot gets quicker, louder as Daesung parks the car not out front, but in his garage.

Jiyong gets out on his own, and Daesung rushes after him. When he tries to take Jiyong by the arm, however, he winces away and mutters, “I’m fine.”

Sighing, Daesung follows him up the stairs towards the front door, making sure to stay close by in case Jiyong loses his footing.

Until he reaches the door, he doesn’t. There, he stops. He leans in the doorway, head hung low.

“Go home Sungie,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

Daesung walks up to him.

“I’ll be fine. Just go,” Jiyong keeps muttering.

Daesung wraps his arms around him. Jiyong buries his face in Daesung’s neck. Daesung picks him up even as he says, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know,” he tells Jiyong. “But I think I’ll stay.”

From then on, Jiyong stops protesting. He clings to Daesung until he is taken to the kitchen where he’s set down on a chair. He sits up straight, stares ahead, with his hands on the table, tapping furiously against the wood.

Daesung wastes no time getting him medicine and a glass of water. Activated carbon and xanax which, Daesung notices, Jiyong has an abundance of. He stares at the items before him, his hands never staying still, until, defeated, he takes the medicine.

In the meantime, Daesung works on finding him something to eat.

Jiyong stares at the sandwich for a concerning amount of time. Just as Daesung is about to intervene, Jiyong speaks,

“Minho hates me,” miserably.

Daesung sighs internally. He knows, he _knows_ there is no point listening to and advising Jiyong around his issues when he is this out of it, he knows it’s useless because he can’t properly hear whatever Daesung might have to say. In the morning, he might not even remember the conversation at all.

But Daesung doesn’t have the heart to leave Jiyong hanging when he sounds so heartbroken, drugs or no drugs.

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think, I _know_. I… I did something stupid. And then I did something worse.”

Daesung frowns. “Did something happen?”

Jiyong stares off into space. Daesung begins to count down seconds while waiting for him to speak.

“I kissed him.”

Daesung sits up in surprise. He is not surprised that Jiyong kissed Minho. He is surprised that Jiyong sees it as a bad thing, or something to be hated over.

“Well… was it—consensual? Was he into it?” He asks, because this very unlikely situation is the only one in which he would be able to understand why Minho would suddenly hate Jiyong.

Jiyong shakes his head. “He was into it. He was too into it.”

Daesung crosses his arms. “Did… _he_ do something—”

Jiyong’s gaze clears only for a moment, only to give Daesung an offended and horrified look. “No! Minho? He wouldn’t—No…”

“Then what’s the problem? I mean, _you_ kissed _him_. That means the feelings are mutual, right?”

Jiyong slowly brings his hands up to his head and grips his hair. “What— _feelings_?”

Now Daesung sits there uncomfortably, his stomach dropping. “Dude, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Minho’s, like, in love with you.”

Jiyong begins to shake his head.

“I thought you knew—Everyone knew…”

The noise echoes through the room when Jiyong smacks his head against the table. “He _doesn’t_! He doesn’t _love_ me, he _idolizes_ me! He doesn’t know shit about me! He only sees what he wants to see, he only sees the person he’s been watching through a screen since he was thirteen!”

Daesung sits, and stares, the stab of guilt nearly making him sick. It was indeed foolish of them all to think that just because Minho had a genuine crush, and just because those feelings appeared to be mutual, things would immediately work out. As his friends, Daesung, Youngbae and Seunghyun should’ve known that it was much more complicated than that. That Jiyong may not have been ready at all.

But he worries about the kiss. Because it happened, and because in Jiyong’s own words, he’s the one who initiated it.

“Yongie… What happened?” Daesung swallows. “You said you did something stupid and then something worse. What’s the other thing you did?”

Jiyong keeps his head on the table, his bent arms shielding his face as his hands still rest on his head. His voice is muffled as he speaks, “Minho, he… He got the wrong impression. It was—it was just a kiss, but he—started trying to get close and I couldn’t—”

Jiyong chokes on his words. He trembles. Daesung doesn’t attempt to comfort him.

“I told him… that it had meant nothing.”

“Jiyong.”

He shakes his head. “He thinks he wants me. _Me?_ No, he wants the perfect version of me he’s created in his head.”

“Jiyong…”

“He thinks I’m something I’m not and that’s why he doesn’t realize that he can do so much better… He _has_ to. I’m—I’m a mess. He would only be miserable with me—”

_“Jiyong!”_

Daesung doesn’t shout, not ever.

Jiyong jolts, sits up, shaken out of his self-pitying trance. He looks up at his friend, wide-eyed.

“You used him!”

Jiyong blinks. His chin begins to tremble.

“You knew he was infatuated with you—call it idolization, call it love—you knew he wouldn’t turn you down! You kissed him, knowing that you weren’t ready to commit! What is wrong with you?”

At that point, Jiyong can’t hold it in anymore. Tears start rolling down his cheeks. Daesung can’t look at him like that.

He turns away from his friend. “Eat your food and go to sleep,” he mutters and walks out.

The warm water does little to help the aches in Jiyong’s body, but he’s surprised he’s even moving. Taking a shower is a big achievement for his current state.

Once he’s dressed, he goes down the stairs to check if Daesung is still there. His friends… They have a tendency to refuse to leave Jiyong alone in these situations.

There’s light coming from the kitchen. Daesung hasn’t left, then. The smell, though, reminds Jiyong of the fact that the only thing he ate in the past thirty hours was that sandwich Daesung made him last night.

He drags his feet as he walks towards the door.

“Hey,” he speaks quietly, but gets no response. Jiyong sighs and goes to sit down at the table, waiting for Daesung to finish.

But as he waits, anxiety bubbles in his stomach, making him sick. He realizes that he’d rather do anything else other than sitting here, getting the silent treatment from one of his best friends.

“Maybe you’d feel better if you just yelled at me,” Jiyong says.

Daesung laughs, and the bitterness of it startles Jiyong. “Yell? Nah. It’s more like Youngbae to scold, isn’t it? No… I’m not mad at you, I’m just glad you’re fucking alive.”

Jiyong says nothing.

“You weren’t fooling anyone, by the way,” Daesung says. “We all knew you weren’t doing the work to get better. We only didn’t know if you were still taking drugs. But now…”

“I’m not! I’m not.” Jiyong begins to shake. He knows he’s lied, he knows that Daesung has no reason to believe him. But, he has to. Because it’s the truth. “This was the first time I took anything since rehab.”

Daesung turns around, raises his eyebrows, arms crossed.

“...anything other than benzos,” Jiyong mutters.

Daesung sighs.

“I wasn’t well. I needed something—”

“That's why you go to therapy, Jiyong! That's why you see a psychiatrist, get proper medication!”

Jiyong shrinks, hugging himself. “I know. It’s just… It wasn’t that easy.”

They both stay silent for a moment.

“If you knew,” Jiyong says slowly, “why didn’t you say something?”

“We... wanted to give you space because you reacted so badly when we pushed you into recovery the first time. With you completely cutting us off, we figured it’d be best if we left you be for a while. We hoped that time alone would be good for you, but…”

Jiyong just sits there, feeling like complete shit. He let them down. He let them all down.

“It’s okay, you know,” Daesung says. “It’s okay to need help.”

“I know that,” Jiyong mumbles.

“Then why do you keep rejecting it?” Daesung sounds desperate.

“I don’t know, okay!?” Jiyong snaps. “It’s not that simple! Fuck— _nothing_ about this is simple!”

“...maybe you’re just not ready to get better.”

“Maybe,” tiredly.

Daesung sighs. “Well. I’m no longer going to watch you destroy yourself. So don’t worry, this will be the last time I pick you up from the gutter. I tried to be there for you, but you gotta know it’s difficult being your friend.”

Jiyong’s blood runs cold. Everything he’s feared starts materializing before him. It’s different when you push people away and when they threaten to leave you.

But he also knows that Daesung is right. He can’t keep going like this.

If not for himself, for others.

“Fuck, Daesung wait. I know. I _know_ , it’s a shit situation on both ends, but… I’m really sorry. For all I’ve put you through, you and the others.”

“...it’s fine, Yong. Just, be honest with them. They deserve to know the truth.”

Jiyong nods. “I will.” He goes quiet for a while. “So, you didn’t tell the others?”

“And put them through even more than they already have been through? No.”

Jiyong shrinks. “Yeah…. You have a point.”

Jiyong swallows. There’s only one more thing left to say.

“Daesung? Thank you.”

Tiredly, Daesung smiles. “Anytime, Yongie.”


	16. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two white lines sit atop the coffee table. Jiyong’s last ones.
> 
> This will be the end. After these two lines Jiyong will start a new chapter of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A boonus chapter because it was my birthday two days ago.

Jiyong is still a bit woozy when he wakes up the next time. Daesung has said that he’d stay a while longer, knowing that Jiyong might still need some company and support.

He goes downstairs once again, like he did the day before. Daesung made breakfast, like he made dinner the day before. The very least, Jiyong has returned to waking up at a normal time.

While Jiyong is eating, Daesung suddenly, wordlessly, hands him his phone. Jiyong frowns, checks the contact. It’s Seunghyun.

“Hello?”

_ “Hey. We need to talk.” _

“That’s never a good start,” Jiyong says, laughing nervously.

_ “Yeah… I do need to tell you something… upsetting.” _

“Well…” Jiyong shuffles in his chair, becoming overly, uncomfortably aware of the grilled cheese sandwich in his stomach. “I’m sitting down. What’s up?”

_ “You and Minho won’t be continuing promotions.” _

Jiyong is quiet for a while. It couldn’t be because of his relapse, could it? Daesung said that he didn’t tell anyone, he even asked Jiyong to tell them himself. So, then…

“But… why?”

_ “This is the part you should be sitting down for.” _ Seunghyun pauses.  _ “Minho was rushed to the hospital last night. He passed out due to malnutrition.” _

“No.”

_ “He’s woken up. He’s been talking to his family, to his therapist, he had an emergency appointment… He’s decided to accept in-patient hospitalization for his eating disorder.” _

Jiyong sinks in his chair, holding his head helplessly. He’s struggling to look at the silver-lining; the fact that Minho will be recovering. He can only focus on the fact that it all  _ happened _ , that he was so unwell that he was rushed to the hospital.

Daesung quietly moves to sit beside Jiyong. He tries to rest his hand on Jiyong’s arm but he shrugs him off.

_ “He’ll be okay. He’ll be recovering, but I had to tell you what happened.” _

“Only now!? You’re telling me only now??”

_ “I knew you’d freak out if I told you sooner,” _ Seunghyun says calmly.  _ “I decided that it would be for the best to wait for everything to unwind and tell you then. And Minho, he… He wanted to wait.” _

Jiyong’s eyes sting. Of course he did. He probably didn’t want to see or talk to Jiyong before he went away. He hates him. Minho hates him.

...What is he  _ thinking _ ? About himself again. This is about  _ Minho _ , Minho is the one Jiyong should be worrying about, not whether or not he hates him.

“I understand,” Jiyong says, surprising himself with his calmness, let alone Daesung and Seunghyun. “You’re in contact with him, of course?”

_ “Of course,” _ Seunghyun says.

“Keep me posted, everything you’re allowed to tell, tell me. And I guess… We’ll just wait.”

_ “...Yeah. Yeah.” _ Seunghyun pauses.  _ “You know, I might be able to get you to continue promotions on your own. It could be risky, but—” _

“No. I don’t want to do this without Minho. Besides, if I continued by myself it would draw attention to Minho and his situation. Attention is the last thing he needs right now.”

_ “Yeah, that’s right… You’re right.” _ Another pause.  _ “Jiyong?” _

“Yeah?”

_ “Take this time to take care of yourself. Please.” _

“You know what, Seunghyun? I just might.”

The elder lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And send me my fiancé back, please.”

Jiyong smiles faintly. “I will.”

Daesung stays to make sure that Jiyong is alright and that he eats something for lunch. Then he’s off.

* * *

Two white lines sit atop the coffee table. Jiyong’s last ones.

This will be the end. After these two lines Jiyong will start a new chapter of his life.

Two years ago his tour was cancelled because he overdosed in Hong Kong. Two weeks ago Minho and his promotions got cancelled because of Minho’s passing out and voluntary hospitalization.

Jiyong used to think it was getting clean that stood in the way of his career, his creativity. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Not having their shit together is what stands in the way of their careers.

Minho is working on getting it together. Jiyong intends to do the same.

Now, this may be an odd way of getting his shit together, but Jiyong has his own logic. See, he has some leftover speed and LSD from the party. If they stick around, he’ll be tempted. But if they’re gone, the temptation disappears too.

He isn’t going back to rehab. He refuses to. He’ll do it alone, he knows he can. He just needs to take his benzos in lower and lower doses and once he’s clean he’ll dump the rest into the toilet.

He can’t do that with speed and acid, of course. Too expensive.

It’s a good plan. It will work.

It has to.

Jiyong inhales the powder through a rolled up 50 000 won bill.

Chills run down Jiyong’s spine. He’s hot. He hears his own breathing, loud, like strong autumn winds.

He’s pretty sure he hears his bloodstream, as well. It’s a running river, a tidal wave.

Jiyong smiles. It sounds nice. Beautiful. Relaxing.

He brings the cigarette to his lips, inhales and exhales towards the ceiling. Jiyong is once again lying on the carpet in his living room.

It’s nice there. Like lying on big, fluffy clouds.

Clouds. Like the smoke that leaves Jiyong’s cigarette.

He exhales.

He’s never loved his house so much. Everything is so beautiful and well composed.

His heart swells.

He loves his house, he loves his friends, he even loves his family.

He loves Minho.

Jiyong can’t help thinking that everything will be okay. Jiyong will talk to his family once he’s clean, he’ll be able to reconnect with them. He will no longer be ashamed. He’ll tell them about Minho and they’ll be so happy that he’s found love.

Jiyong's smile grows.

He will talk to Minho when he’s out of the hospital. Minho will be better. He’ll listen to Jiyong as he apologizes again. Jiyong will confess. Minho will forgive him, Jiyong simply knows it.

He’ll…

Fuck it all.

He’ll fucking propose.

They’ll get married and Minho will move in and they’ll take care of Johnny together. Jiyong might adopt a cat of his own. They’ll be cat dads together.

The thought makes Jiyong laugh.

_ Cat dads. _

He can’t stop laughing.

Benzo withdrawals aren’t that bad. He went through it once already, he can do it again! Sure the first time was a controlled environment, but Jiyong knows he can do this. He’s not just some junkie, he’s  _ Kwon Fucking Jiyong _ . He’s gonna do this. He’s gonna get clean and he’ll start living a better life.

Jiyong gets up. The room is upside down. He giggles as he walks on the ceiling. Navigating his house this way is quite difficult but he manages to go down… up? the stairs and find his room.

It’s right way up again as he rummages through. He’s a stranger here, he’s never been here. He doesn’t know where anything is. He just knows what he’s looking for. That’s why it’s so hard to find it. He’s never seen this room in his life.

But he manages to find it.

His stash of white pills.

Jiyong sways towards the bathroom. He falls to his knees. He’s on a boat. The boat is rocking. Left, right, left, right. It’s making it difficult to pour everything down the toilet. The boat rocks to the right and a few pills fall on the ground. Jiyong grabs them before they skid away as the boat rocks to the left. He throws them into the toilet with the rest, and flushes.

Jiyong grins. Down they go.

Soon he’ll be clean and Minho will love him back.

He’ll forgive him.

Jiyong walks down the stairs. Lead is in his limbs, making him walk slowly.

What if Minho doesn’t forgive him? What if it’s too late? What if he hates him too much already?

Jiyong sniffles, crumbling to the ground at the foot of the staircase.

Minho hates him. He’ll never forgive him. All of his friends have told him already, he fucked up. He fucked up too badly. There’s no fixing it.

Tears obscure Jiyong’s vision. He chokes on his own sobs, curled up on the ground.

He can’t breathe.

A feeling comes over him, very similar to what he felt back in Hong Kong, in  _ Volar _ .

He can’t breathe, he can’t move. His body is shutting down.

He’s dying.

He’s dying.

_ He’s dying. _

And for the first time in his miserable life, Jiyong thinks, _ I don’t want to die _ .

Please.

_ Please. _

Lights flash around him. Red, blue, yellow, green. His head hurts. He’s… He’s in  _ Volar _ all over again.

People around him are crushing him. Jumping, dancing, singing. But Jiyong can’t move.

He screams, like he screamed that day.

He screams, and no one hears, like no one heard that day.

At some point the chaos settled. Jiyong doesn’t remember when or how.

He doesn’t remember much of last night.

He remembers his idiotic decision to dump his pills into the toilet.

He raises his arm to smack his forehead, but before his palm makes contact there’s a hand around his wrist.

Frantically, Jiyong whips around to look to the left. He is met with the faintly smiling face of Kwon Dami.

“Don’t,” she says softly.

She looks awful. Pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

What the hell happened last night?

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” He asks hoarsely.

“You asked me to come,” Dami says.

“ _ Me _ ? I did that?”

She only nods.

Jiyong frowns and rips his hand out of her hold. “You shouldn’t have come. Couldn’t you tell I was out of it?”

“That’s precisely why I came, Yongie. You needed someone.”

“I needed—What the fuck do you know what I need!? You don’t know shit about what I need! I haven’t seen you in  _ years _ !”

“And whose fault is that?” Dami asks perfectly calmly.

Jiyong watches her, wide-eyed. In the end he just says, “Go away.”

Dami shrugs. She walks out the door.

Jiyong watches her go. Soon, however, he’s on his feet as well, rushing to the bathroom.

Jiyong is on his knees. Why did he lash out at his sister? He flushes the toilet. She came here in God knows what time of the night, just to be beside his high ass. He washes his mouth, drinks some water. His stomach turns at the thought of what he’s said to her, his chest tightens. He rubs his chest helplessly.

He goes to take a shower. Once he’s changed, he stumbles downstairs.

...Dami is sitting on the couch, tucked underneath a blanket, watching TV.

She turns it off when she sees him.

“Feeling better?”

“You’re still here?” Jiyong breathes.

Dami nods. “I can’t leave you now.”

Jiyong stands on the last step, fist clenched. He tries to blink the tears away. His throat burns.

Dami moves. She walks over to the staircase, standing one step above Jiyong, and wraps her arms around him. He clings to the back of her shirt.

“I’m sorry. For being an ass to you. I shouldn’t have—I just—I didn’t want you to see me like that, like  _ this— _ ”

“It doesn’t change anything, Yongie. You’re still my baby brother.”

Her gentle tone, her stroking Jiyong’s hair, only makes him cry harder. She leads him to the couch and lets him curl up with his head in her lap.

Jiyong lies sideways on his bed with his head in Dami’s lap, who’s leaning against the headboard.

“Mom and dad are worried,” Dami says.

Jiyong sighs. Deep down he knew that she would open that can of worms, but he couldn’t help hoping that she wouldn’t.

She’s the first family member to speak to him in years. It’s her duty, in a way.

“I know,” is all Jiyong says though. He isn’t ready. He’ll never be ready for this conversation.

“I won’t ask why,” Dami tells him quietly. “I know you had your reasons. Frankly we’re all just glad—that you’re— _ alive. _ But… Cutting off contact like that… It would worry anyone. Especially your family. We were on good terms, weren’t we? I really hope we haven't missed anything.”

Jiyong shakes his head. “You didn’t. It was me. It was all me.”

“It’s okay,” Dami says.

The words are poison on his tongue. He needs to spit them out at last or they will kill him.

“I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to be a part of all my bullshit. I didn’t want you to see me struggling, especially when I didn’t want to get better. I was ashamed.”

Dami lets him speak. She strokes his hair while she listens. “I understand. It’s… it’s fucked up for sure. Telling you now that we would’ve been by your side no matter what is somewhat useless, isn’t it?” She pauses, resting her hand gently on his forehead. “Are you ashamed still?”

Jiyong stays quiet for a long while. “I don’t know. I’m hoping the feeling will go away once I get myself together. It’s not just being clean, I…” He swallows dryly. “I need—help. I need therapy. Prescribed medication.”

Dami nods and Jiyong thinks he hears her sigh in relief. She leans down and kisses his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, Yongie. This is a long way you’ve come.”

They sit in silence. They let it surround them.

“We’ll wait until you’re ready, Jiyong. But can I tell our parents about what happened here? That you need some more time? They’ll want to know what’s been going on, they’ve been worried sick.”

Jiyong nods slowly.

After a pause, Dami speaks again, “Yongie, what  _ has  _ been going on with you? The last we’ve heard from you was… before your tour, wasn’t it? Quite a while before it. We know about—about Hong Kong, we know about rehab. But what’s been going on since then?”

Jiyong is hesitant at first, but once he starts, he can’t stop. He tells Dami everything. He tells her about rehab and the months he spent in a rut, how he cut off contact with his friends. He tells her about his self medicating. He tells her about meeting Minho and Seunghyun’s proposition. He tells her about working with Minho, his concern for him, his… feelings for him. And he tells her everything about how they fell out and how things ended.

“It’s not the end, Yongie,” Dami says when he’s done. “Your friend is in recovery, you will be recovering too. You both need time for all of this to settle. You’ve hurt him, you apologized. You can’t impact his decision to forgive you or not to. It’s good that you know what you did wrong. It’s alright to be sad. But it isn’t the end yet. You need to… let this go for now. It’s out of your hands. All you can do is learn from it.”

“I guess so,” Jiyong says flatly. This is what everyone has been telling him, more or less, yet it hasn’t made him feel any better.

“I’m proud of you, though. I’m glad you returned to making music, I’m proud of you for making an album. I listened to it, I loved it!”

Jiyong manages a small smile. “Thank you. Thank you really… for all of this.”

“It’s no problem,” Dami says, cradling Jiyong’s head as if he were a baby. “I won’t leave you until I know you’re safe.”

She pauses. “Which is why I have to ask if you’ll be going back to rehab.”

Jiyong’s eyes go dark. He feared this question. “I… I don’t know.”

“You said it yourself, Yongie. You need professional help. It’s not such a bad idea. Besides, you might not be gone for that long this time.”

Jiyong stays quiet. His heart is racing, his skin is ice cold.

“Just… Think about it. I’ll be with you through anything, whatever you choose. But I do not think it’s safe for you to quit on your own.”

When Jiyong still doesn’t answer, she continues, “I’ll go with you. I’ll see you off and I’ll be there to welcome you home, I  _ promise _ . Just think about it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jiyong whispers, even though he’s already made up his mind.

He hates it, but this time he won’t be alone. He’s missed having a sister.

* * *

“What a shitshow,” Chaerin says.

No one else really feels like speaking, it seems.

“You can say that again,” Seunghyun mutters, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.

Jiyong shuffles, rests his head in Chaerin’s lap and lets her play with his hair.

“At least we all got together. It’s been a while since we hung out like this,” Daesung, the eternal optimist, says.

Jiyong smiles, just for him. He sits up briefly to reach Daesung, who is sitting on the opposite end of the couch, and pokes his cheek. Then he lies back down in Chaerin’s lap.

What he meant by “hanging out like this” was all five of them lying around one of their places, drinking and smoking. Talking, if they aren’t too tired.

Jiyong invited them to his, because it’s only fair. The purpose of the hangout was for them all to catch up, which they did do for the most part, but as they got gradually tipsier, talking became pointless and rambly.

There is one more thing Jiyong needs to do, but he isn’t ready yet. He is letting this unfold for now.

“I just can’t believe it, you know,” Seunghyun says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “All of this… can’t be a coincidence, right?” He says after exhaling. “Something bad always happens to my artists, doesn’t it? I must be fucking shit at my job,” he says the last sentence through laughter.

There it is, the sting of guilt. A sensation that Jiyong has lived with, but can no longer control. He sits up so suddenly that he sees white dots all around him. He rolls off of the couch and staggers towards the armchair where Seunghyun is sitting. Jiyong sits on his lap.

“No, no, no. No. You’re not shit at your job. It’s not you. It’s… it's  _ me _ . I create my own messes. As for Minho, it was his illness… it wasn’t your fault. You...” Jiyong looks away. “I never apologized to you, have I? For being so fucking difficult to be friends with, let alone manage. I was never anything but deadweight to you…” He looks up at his friends. “To all of you.”

His throat burns and he tries to swallow the sensation down. But he can’t. He can’t stop his chest from aching, so rubs at it helplessly. “I never apologized for  _ years  _ of being so fucking difficult to deal with.”

He stands up from Seunghyun’s lap, suddenly feeling disgusted with himself. He sat down as means of comforting his friend, but now he realizes that he was only comforting himself. He doesn’t deserve comfort. Not after the kind of friend he’s been.

He stands in the middle of the room and covers his ears with his folded arms, lacing his fingers at the top of his head. He slowly lowers himself into a crouch, once again weakly saying, _ “I’m sorry.” _

There are hands on his wrists, gently pulling his arms from his head. Chaerin is kneeling in front of him, so are the rest of his friends. Youngbae gently rubs his shoulder, Daesung rests his head on the top of Jiyong’s own, Seunghyun helps hold Jiyong in an upright position.

When they unfold from the group hug, Seunghyun and Chaerin lead him to the couch, and she embraces him.

“You were not, and are not a deadweight,” Seunghyun says.

“You were obnoxious, of course,” Youngbae says, “But a deadweight? Never.”

“You simply had your own shit to deal with, Yongie,” Chaerin whispers. “We all understand that.”

“It’s been difficult, but… We’re just glad to have you back.” Daesung looks away, hiding his face.

Jiyong is struggling to keep his tears down. His vision is already blurry, he is shaking.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for having pushed you away for so long. I thought it would fix things, I thought the only way I can stop being a waste was by isolating myself, but—”

“Shhh, no more apologies,” Chaerin says, kissing his forehead.

“We forgive you,” Youngbae says.

Jiyong takes a deep breath. “There’s something else I have to tell you… I’m not sure you’ll be so forgiving after I tell you that.”

“What is it?” Chaerin asks, hugging him tighter protectively.

“I need to come clean…” He swallows. “I never… After rehab, I never went to therapy. Well, I did, but only for a short while. I… continued to self medicate.” He goes quiet. He wants to say so much more, to apologize for lying, but he can’t speak.

“We know,” Youngbae says. “I’m the one who picked you up from your nights of drinking, remember? We all knew.”

“Or supposed,” Daesung fills in.

“We just didn’t want to push you,” Seunghyun mutters. “We probably should have said something, but…”

Jiyong shakes his head. “I probably would have snapped at you anyway. I’ve been… God, I’ve been so  _ stupid _ .”

“Shhh,” Chaerin kisses Jiyong’s forehead. “There’s no use dwelling on what was and what would have been. What’s important is, what you’ll do now.”

“I’m going back to rehab,” Jiyong pushes the words out.

The others exchange astonished looks.

“Are you… Are you sure?” Seunghyun asks. “The last time…”

“The last time was different. This time it’s my choice.” Jiyong looks up and gives an uncertain smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s about time I got my shit together, _ for real _ .” Jiyong’s smile disappears, his eyes go out of focus. “I can… I can only hope that both Minho and I will get out of our treatment feeling better…”

“You will,” Chaerin says. No one else dares to speak.

Seeing him off this time is completely different. Jiyong gives everyone a hug, Seunghyun, Daesung, Chaerin, Youngbae, Dami, even Hyorin is there. There’s no resentment. Jiyong doesn’t feel like he’s being pushed away into a prison. He isn’t looking forward to it, but this time… he’s hopeful.


	17. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s up?” He answers, making intentionally loud slurping noises while he sips on his frappuccino.
> 
> Seunghyun gets straight to the business, _“I’ve got news regarding Minho. Where are you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I understand correctly that a sequel is in demand?

“How was it?” Youngbae asks.

Jiyong shrugs. “Okay. I feel like it hasn’t taken off. I know it’s been a while, but I’m having trouble opening up. Eh. Let’s go get coffee.”

Jiyong himself was surprised when Youngbae offered to go with him to therapy and wait out the session. He didn’t feel like he needed any support… well, save for the first time, when he returned to therapy and went to see a psychiatrist about his depression and proper medication. That time he appreciated Youngbae’s company, and he still does, he just finds it slightly unnecessary.

Still, it’s good to know he has people to rely on. Besides, grabbing a drink afterwards is always a bonus.

These days Jiyong can say he’s feeling... better. Not good, not by a long shot. But better. He’s been working on getting his sleep schedule in order, sleeping at normal times and throughout the night. He is still troubled by nightmares, but the meds help with it somewhat, keeping him knocked out and dreamless for eight hours.

He’s started feeling more rested. Since he also started working with a dietician, he’s been eating better as well.

He returned from rehab two months ago after three months of being in-patient. There was a party. The last time, Jiyong had ignored his friends and went off drinking by himself. The last time, he had locked himself up in his apartment and refused to see anyone.

This time, everything was different.

When it comes to Minho, Jiyong has tried not to think about him. To his knowledge, he hasn’t been discharged yet. It’s been months…. But Jiyong figures Seunghyun will tell him if there are any changes.

Or maybe not. Maybe Minho doesn’t want Jiyong to know anything.

His therapist had given Jiyong an exercise: worry about everything only two hours a day, keep it off your mind the rest of the time. Two hours a day to think about Minho. The rest, Jiyong focuses on his recovery.

Other than that, things are going a little too well. The progress has been slow, but so far linear, which disturbs Jiyong. He has his moments here and there, he struggles with temptation and ideas of giving up, but otherwise everything is just fine. It makes him remember that it was always when Minho and him stopped to reminisce about how great everything was that things started to go wrong.

With this on his mind, he glances sideways at Youngbae, then back down at the pavement.

“I haven’t mentioned this to my therapist yet, but… I’m kind of worried that something will go wrong soon. I mean, everything has been fine. And I just can’t help feeling…”

“Something will definitely go wrong,” Youngbae says simply. “Sooner or later. We know it’ll happen because recovery is like that. You take five steps forward, and four backward, keeping a slow but steady progress.” He looks at Jiyong and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “And now that you know something will surely go wrong, there’s no use worrying about it. Because guess what else? It’ll pass, like every other bad moment in your life has. You’ll get through whatever this process has in store for you. And it’ll be good again. For the time being, enjoy the fact that everything is okay. When it’s not, we’ll deal with it then.”

Jiyong can’t take his eyes off of Youngbae, looking at him as if he were a lifeline. Youngbae moves his arm from around Jiyong’s shoulders and instead squeezes his hand.

Jiyong nods. “That… Wow. Why aren’t you my therapist?” He grins, as to lighten the mood.

Youngbae chuckles. “I’m just being honest. I’d rather you stayed in therapy.”

Jiyong nods. He looks ahead at the green mermaid sign growing bigger as they approach. “I think I’ll have a frappuccino.”

While inside, Jiyong receives a phone call from Seunghyun. They have been talking about possible future projects, although Jiyong has said that he wants a break first. He doesn’t plan on it to be nearly as long as his most recent hiatus, but he does need to breathe and focus on his health.

“What’s up?” He answers, making intentionally loud slurping noises while he sips on his frappuccino.

Seunghyun gets straight to the business, _“I’ve got news regarding Minho. Where are you?”_

Well, this is not what he expected at all. It is not his Minho hour after all. “Starbucks. Let me—fuck, let me get out.”

The noise from the street outside might just be worse than the chatter of the people inside, but Jiyong needs some air. He rests his free hand on his knee, bent forward and leaning against the wall. “Tell me.” The last he’s heard of Minho, he has been discharged and was staying with his family for a while.

_“He’s back. He wanted me to let you know.”_

“What do you mean he’s back?”

_“Oh, yeah—he didn’t want me to tell you before. He’s been discharged some time ago and has been spending time with his family,”_

“Ah, I see… Thank you for telling me.”

_“No problem. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. What the hell happened between you two? You’ve been weird since your showcase, and now you’re not speaking. I didn’t wanna ask before because of everything going on, but I knew something was up with you two.”_

You know how they say that as time goes by, you’ll find an incident funny? It’s somewhat like that for Jiyong, except that his incident still hasn’t been resolved. He leans back against the wall, smiling, yet there is a lump in his throat and a weight on his chest. “I’ll tell you all about it someday, Seunghyunie. Things are still far too complicated.”

_“...Alright, just know that I’m here if you need anything.”_

“It’s something I, we need to figure out on our own.”

_“I understand. Well—I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’ll see you around.”_ And he hangs up.

* * *

Despite everything going well the past months, the main source of Jiyong’s distress has been Minho, of course.

Jiyong doesn’t want to impose, or annoy. He knows that they weren’t on the best of terms when they last saw each other, so he hesitates being the first one to make contact.

However days bleed into weeks and Minho does not reach out to Jiyong, so despite everything, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

He sends Minho an email.

_Dear Minho,_

_I have heard you are back in Seoul._

_To say that things were rocky when we last talked would be an understatement. But when we parted ways that day, our conversation was left unfinished. I would like to clear things up._

_I understand you might not want to see me at all. If that is the case, please just say so and I will respect your decision._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Kwon Jiyong_

Waiting for the response is, simply put, excruciating. Jiyong does not have as much free time these days as he had when he returned from rehab the first time, but he still finds the time to sit around, refreshing his email, hoping to hear from Minho. Not only that, but whatever he does try to do, Minho is still on his mind. He keeps rereading his own email, wondering if it is in any way pressuring or ridiculous, getting anxious over the possibility that he might wait forever.

He lies awake at night, thinking about it. Wondering, above all, if Minho has heard the voicemail. If he did… that changes everything. Jiyong hardly remembers what he said in it, he only hopes it wasn’t too stupid. And he hopes that it wasn’t something that might make Minho never want to see him again, if his past actions didn’t do that already.

In these days of waiting, he has the tendency to wake up in the middle of the night, breathless and sweaty, after a nightmare about Minho which contents he immediately forgets, having only the tightness in his chest remaining to remind him that it was ever there.

It came to a point where he’s considering calling his therapist for an emergency appointment.

That is, until he receives an email.

_Dear Jiyong,_

_I’ve worked so hard on establishing a friendly communication with you. When have we returned to being so formal?_

_I must admit the thought of seeing you isn’t the most pleasant one at the moment, but I do feel the same way. I want to clear things up._

_I shouldn’t have, I should have focused on my recovery, but I did end up thinking a lot about everything that’s come to pass. I need answers, which is why I accept to see you._

_Pick me up at 19h on Sunday. I’m back at the dorm. We can go to that place of yours, I’m craving Japanese food._

_Yours,_

_Minho_

Jiyong wishes he reacted with more dignity, but in reality it took him quite some time to remember how to breathe after reading the email.

And then, he only had to wait until Sunday.

* * *

It was clear from the email that Jiyong would be clearing his schedule to meet Minho, or they wouldn’t be meeting at all. Jiyong didn’t mind doing so. He has his priorities straight.

He grips the steering wheel, watching his arms shake. He wishes, although it’s hopeless, that they stop before Minho arrives.

Alas. Here he comes, with his bag on one shoulder, wearing…

Jiyong squints, then his eyes widen as he sits back, watching Minho through the window.

He is wearing Jiyong’s jacket. The jacket that Jiyong had gifted him. Kid’s wearing Gucci.

And it looks amazing on him. It works oddly well with the loose white shirt splattered with paint he has on.

He enters the car, offering no greeting other than a tiny ‘hello.’

“Hi,” Jiyong says breathlessly. “I love your outfit.” Jiyong mentally kicks himself. He isn’t supposed to comment on Minho’s physical appearance, he knows that. Does commenting on his outfit count? Idiot.

Minho turns to look at him from behind his sunglasses and for a second his expression is icy. Jiyong’s chest tightens. He might start losing his breath soon.

But then Minho offers the tiniest of smiles and says, “Thank you.” That’s all he says, but it is enough to put Jiyong at ease.

He drives to the restaurant.

“Seems like only yesterday we were sitting here, discussing our project for the first time,” Jiyong reminisces, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Minho is sitting quietly opposite of him, with his food untouched. They have hardly spoken ever since they arrived at the restaurant. They both remained silent even as they ordered their food and until it arrived. Eventually, Jiyong could take it no longer.

“Jiyong,” Minho says. “I’m tired. Let’s skip the introductions.”

“You had about an hour and a half to get to the point, but now I’m the one who’s stalling,” Jiyong snaps, because he can’t help it. Because Minho hasn’t said a thing since he got into his car. Because Jiyong is already at the edge of his nerves, and the two of them haven’t even started talking.

He isn’t sure he’ll make it through this conversation.

Minho shuffles in his seat, narrowing his eyes at Jiyong. “Do forgive me, I was only trying to find a way to approach the topic. Besides, I somehow thought you had something to tell me.”

Jiyong stares. Minho came here expecting an apology, didn’t he? And Jiyong was stupid enough not to give him one immediately.

Jiyong clears his throat. “I do, actually.” Except that Jiyong still doesn’t know if Minho knows. “The kiss, what I said afterwards, the—” voice mail. But he can’t say it, because he doesn’t know yet.

Minho’s gaze doesn’t reveal a thing. It is perfectly calm and cold, staring a hole into Jiyong’s face.

Jiyong clears his throat again. He leans back, not even having noticed that he’s leaned forward. “I’m sorry about how I treated you. I don’t know what to say for myself. I used you…”

“You lied to me,” Minho cuts in.

“I did,” Jiyong says quietly. Their eyes meet. Minho knows. He has to know.

“You tried to hide the reason you really did it, and it took you to get high to tell me the truth.”

Jiyong blinks furiously, his throat burning. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” And here is where Minho’s voice cracks. Where he leans forward, fists on the table on either side of his plate. Tears in his eyes. This fact startles Jiyong.

Tears?

“You know I love you back, why didn’t you just fucking tell me!?”

Jiyong has leaned away so much that his chair almost tipped over. He can’t stop his own tears, just like Minho can’t.

They sit there, staring at each other, both trying to catch their breaths.

“I was scared,” Jiyong utters. “I thought I’d made a mistake, I—I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to confess.”

Minho has gone back to looking furious, despite his tears, but he lets Jiyong continue.

“I was confused. I didn’t want to acknowledge my own feelings and they just—burst through and I did something stupid. Only then did I realize what I’d done and I knew it was wrong—”

Minho lets out a frustrated, confused noise. “What—why for fuck’s sake!?”

Jiyong now leans in, throwing a glance around the space where people have already started to take notice of the heated argument. “ _Shhh_.” He takes a deep breath, lowering his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Minho.

“Minho, you and I… You really don’t need someone like me. I’m older than you, I’m fucked up. Fuck, until recently I was still a fucking addict. Why would you…”

“Oh please, Jiyong, that’s so fucking pathetic.” Minho shakes his head, taking a second to breathe. “You didn’t even give me a choice. You just made it for me. It’s not just about you and your feelings, you know?”

Jiyong gives the tiniest of nods.

“Look at me,” Minho demands.

Jiyong does.

“Have some fucking courage,” Minho says. His eyes still glisten, tear stains run down his cheeks. “Let it be. If what you said in the voicemail is true, if you really feel that way… And I do too… Just give it a chance. Don’t shut me out.”

Jiyong has no clue what to say other than apologize again. He stutters, “I’m—sorry for having been so selfish—”

“Oh, shut up,” Minho says. He’s leaned in closer. There are mere millimeters between them now.

“Can I kiss you?”

Jiyong’s heart stops. Every cell in his body screams, his skin runs cold, then warm, and it tingles, and his heart comes back to life, beating faster than ever. But the only thing he says is, “yes.”

And Minho cups his cheek and leans all the way in, locking their lips together.

Pulling away, Minho whispers against Jiyong’s lips, “See? It’s not so hard to ask.”

At the callout, Jiyong attempts to look down, to hide in embarrassment, but Minho tips his chin up, leaving Jiyong no option but to look at him.

“Since when are you so bold?” He asks quietly.

Minho shrugs. Jiyong notices that despite his actions, his cheeks are burning. This makes Jiyong smile.

The smile is gone soon, however, as he remembers everything from just a second ago, their conversation, their reason for being there. He leans away, freeing himself from Minho’s grasp.

“I really am sorry, though,” he tries again.

Minho only shakes his head. “Jiyong, I forgive you. But… will you give us a chance? Please?”

Jiyong looks at Minho. If he realized anything during this time they were apart... it's that he really doesn’t like being apart from Minho.

He nods, smiling faintly. “I will.”

There was so much to catch up on. They stayed in the restaurant for hours, holding hands, both leaning in across the table. Jiyong told Minho everything about how Dami had convinced him to go back to rehab, how he started taking prescribed medication, started seeing a therapist. Minho didn’t say much about his own recovery experience and Jiyong didn’t push him.

They are well into their third hour of sitting there when Minho goes silent, staring ahead, stroking his thumb over Jiyong’s smiley tattoo.

“What’s on your mind?” Jiyong asks gently.

“I think,” Minho says carefully. “That it was a mistake.”

Jiyong squeezes Minho’s hand. “What was?”

“Hospitalization. Recovery.”

Jiyong’s heart sinks. He remembers himself, miserable in the hospital, wasting away, cursing his friends for coercing him into getting locked up in there. He remembers his insistence that it was all a mistake, that it was not going to help, that it was all in vain. He remembers what he did right after his discharge, how he went to Octagon and immediately got wasted.

And when Jiyong lays eyes on Minho’s still full plate, his insides twist.

“I hated it there,” Minho whispers. “I hated being surrounded with illness, with people who were just like me or worse. I hated the food, I hated being forced to eat it all. I—I hated gaining weight, not knowing how much I’ve gained. I hated mirrors. Even now—”

Jiyong has to close his eyes and count to twenty to fight off a flashback. When his head clears, he realizes that he’s been squeezing Minho’s hands a bit too tightly. He loosens his grip and looks at Minho.

“I know. I know exactly how you feel. It’s what I felt when I was first forced into recovery. Hell, even now when it was more of my own choice.” He goes quiet. This… This is the most difficult part. When two people have the exact same problem, how are they to help one another?

“You know… You don’t make the choice to recover once. When you do it the first time, it’s a huge milestone, a big step forward. But then you need to keep choosing it. You won’t always do that. At times it’ll seem easier to revert back to your old ways. Setbacks happen. Sometimes a lot of them… But, yeah, you need to... You need to keep choosing recovery. Because it’s the only right choice.”

Minho nods, but he mutters, “It doesn’t feel like the right choice.”

“I know,” Jiyong says softly. He brings Minho’s hand up to his lips and kisses it. “It’s not so different what you and I are going through. It feels like what we’re doing is good, like it’s making us happy. But, fuck, it isn’t. It’s making us miserable, we just can’t see it. That’s why we need to keep choosing recovery. One day, when we leave all our fucked up habits behind we’ll be able to look back and see how horrible it all was.”

Minho looks up at him, giving the tiniest of smiles. “Looks like you’re already there.”

Jiyong’s smile matches Minho’s. “Not really, but I’m getting there at my own pace.”

Minho nods. Jiyong lets silence settle around them, though his gaze remains fixed on Minho’s full plate.

“So what choice have you made recently?”

Minho looks away again. “You’ll be disappointed if I tell you.”

“Not disappointed, only worried.”

When Minho looks at Jiyong, albeit for a fraction of a second, Jiyong catches the glistening of his eyes. Minho quickly wipes his eyes.

Jiyong reaches out, touches Minho’s cheek with his fingertips. He isn’t supposed to comment on it, but he really looks better. The tough thing is that Minho definitely doesn’t feel like it’s better.

“You can always choose differently.”

Minho slowly pulls his hands from Jiyong’s and takes a pair of chopsticks. As Jiyong watches him eat, the nausea doesn’t leave his gut.

“You won’t…. do something bad if you eat now?”

Minho looks at him with wide eyes and shakes his head. “I’ve never—no. I’ll be fine, I wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t fine.”

“Well,” Jiyong exhales, the tension seeping out of him, just a little. “It’s a step in the right direction, I suppose.”

Minho smiles faintly. “What about you? What have you chosen recently?”

“Surprisingly, I’ve been making the right decision. But… I can’t stop thinking of the wrong one.” He goes quiet. Minho squeezes his hand encouragingly. “It haunts me. I have these hallucinations and nightmares… I never was able to get rid of them.”

“It’ll pass,” Minho says. “What’s important is that you’re on the right path.”

Jiyong nods slowly.

Silence settles over them once more. Jiyong is now the one to squeeze Minho’s hand.

“Now, tell me everything I need to know. Dos and don’ts, how can I help, what are the things you have to do alone, when should I react and when should I stay out of your way?”

Minho stares at him. He swallows, looks down at his plate, then up at Jiyong, then away. “I, um…. I’m not sure I have all the answers, but…”

“Tell me what you can. I want to be as supportive as I can without suffocating you. And when you tell me how to support you, I’ll tell you what you can do for me.”


	18. XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How was the shoot?” Minho asks as soon as Jiyong gets into the car.
> 
> He leans in to kiss Minho on the lips. “Fantastic, I killed it.”
> 
> Minho grins. “Of course you did.”
> 
> Jiyong flips his hair and leans against Minho. “No, but seriously, it was amazing. Chaerin’s collection is gorgeous. She fixed me up with an outfit for our event.”
> 
> “That’s so unfair,” Minho mutters, looking Jiyong up and down.
> 
> “Ah yes, you only got the help of other professional stylists. Don’t sulk.” Saying this, Jiyong boops Minho’s nose.

“How was the shoot?” Minho asks as soon as Jiyong gets into the car.

He leans in to kiss Minho on the lips. “Fantastic, I killed it.”

Minho grins. “Of course you did.”

Jiyong flips his hair and leans against Minho. “No, but seriously, it was amazing. Chaerin’s collection is gorgeous. She fixed me up with an outfit for our event.”

“That’s so unfair,” Minho mutters, looking Jiyong up and down.

“Ah yes, you only got the help of other professional stylists. Don’t sulk.” Saying this, Jiyong boops Minho’s nose.

Jiyong attempts to straighten out his shirt. He’ll have to fix his outfit when they arrive.

Minho is playing with Jiyong’s hand and the rings he’s wearing. His palms are a little sweaty and he’s bouncing his leg like he often does.

“Are you nervous?” Jiyong asks him.

Minho stays quiet for a while, then nods. “A little.” He pauses. “Now I know how you felt before our first performance. Going back onstage after a while… I’m scared,” he whispers the last sentence.

“I understand.” Jiyong squeezes his hand. “You’ll do great, Minho. We’re doing this together.”

“Like that time,” Minho mutters.

“Nothing will go wrong this time,” Jiyong says with determination. “Besides, it’s a much smaller event, much more intimate. You’ll see, it’ll be fine.”

Minho nods. He’s still overthinking, Jiyong can tell, but he doesn’t want to push him. Instead Jiyong only kisses Minho’s hand.

It’s been a while since Jiyong had last done a busking event. He stopped once his audience started to grow, as it was no longer convenient. This time, it was the one thing he, Minho and Seunghyun could think of that would be a small enough event, something that wouldn’t be too overwhelming for the two of them to do.

Minho and Jiyong wanted to do something to compensate for their promotions that had only begun and then never happened, but they didn’t want it to be too big. Seunghyun was now especially cautious, insisting that both Jiyong and Minho don’t exert themselves. This is what they came up with.

And even still, even though it was supposed to be the simplest event possible, it was difficult to organize. Finding a place on the streets of Seoul that would be able to accommodate the estimated number of people was tricky enough, but when the two arrived on the spot they were immediately informed that more people than expected showed up.

While everyone is buzzing around him, running and getting down to work to make the performance possible, Jiyong can’t help but stop, look over the crowd, and smile. He watches the sea of heads, all those people who came here just to see Minho and him.

If he could, he would grab Minho and kiss him then and there. He can’t, because they are partially in view of the crowd.

They decided not to go public with the relationship yet. One day they will, but they agreed that now isn’t the time. It’s tough, Jiyong dislikes hiding, but Minho’s comfort is most important to him, so they both manage.

Surprisingly enough, Minho is the first one to address the crowd.

“I’m a little nervous,” he says earnestly into the mic, and in response he gets loud cheering. Jiyong catches a few people in the front row clutching their hearts.

“For those of you who don’t know me, hi, I’m Song Minho—”

Jiyong can’t help but smile at this. To him it’s obvious that people there know Minho. Even though they never had their full extended promotions, their one performance as well as the album itself were a huge success.

“—I just wanted to say how happy I am to be back onstage. And because some of you have been asking, I wanted to say that I’m fine, I’m taking care of my health and I’m doing much better these days. Thank you for your concern. Fighting!” And he gives a little finger heart.

Jiyong covers his face to hide his smile.

But then it’s his turn to speak and he needs to gather his bearings before doing so. “I have to admit I’m nervous too. I only had one performance in the past year and a half. I hope I don’t mess this up.” The crowd laughs. “But honestly… I wouldn’t be here without Minho. He’s the reason I’m making music again.” He steals a sideways glance at his boyfriend, but looks back at the crowd quickly. “And I’m glad to be doing so! I hope you like what Minho and I prepared for you.”

And with that, the music starts.

Jiyong wakes up in movement. He’s perplexed, blinking in the darkness, trying to figure out where he is. His butt hits a soft surface. Blinking a few more times, vision clearing, into view comes his very familiar living room.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Minho’s voice comes from above him.

Jiyong looks up. “You carried me?”

Minho’s arm is still around his waist, hovering above him. He lowers himself beside Jiyong on the couch. “...you were a tad bit heavier than I expected, but yeah.”

Jiyong smiles to himself, nuzzling into Minho. “You don’t have to do that if I get any heavier.”

“Nah, I’m also getting stronger, so it’s fine.”

Jiyong nods. Perhaps he’s too tired to worry, or still trapped in the haze of the world of dreams, but this puts him at ease. Somehow, he feels like everything is more than fine.

He knows very well that both their recoveries will not always be this linear and celebration-filled, but he can’t possibly think about it right now. Not when Minho is leaning in, slowly kissing over Jiyong’s face.

This makes Jiyong smile, lifting his head a little to give Minho more room. However, it is in that moment that the younger pulls away.

“Hey. Happy three months clean.”

Jiyong stares. He completely forgot.

He forgot the last two times as well. It’s always his friends who remind him that there is a reason to celebrate on that particular day.

When it was a month, they all went out together on a drink and smoke free hangout at _Chen’s_. For two months it was a smaller gathering at his place. Jiyong can only assume that they’ll have something bigger planned for six months or a year, provided that Jiyong even reaches those milestones, but right now he’s glad that this time it’s only him and Minho.

“Thanks,” Jiyong mumbles.

“It’s a good thing,” Minho reminds. “You’re doing well.” And he steals a little kiss from Jiyong.

Jiyong nods.

He has confided in Minho that at times he misses being completely fucked up, that he misses drugs. Sometimes, to deal with it, he needs to lock himself in a room and be left alone with his frustration, but other times… Minho reminding him that he’s on the right path is enough.

The celebration is simple enough. Snacks and non alcoholic drinks with a marathon of their favourite depressing movies, with Johnny lazily sprawled in Minho’s lap.

Johnny joined the family when Minho started to spend much more time at Jiyong’s house. It was Minho’s idea, but not only because he missed his cat. He complimented Jiyong’s ability to take care of the plants Minho had gifted him, and suggested that Jiyong should try taking care of a pet for the same reason Minho had gifted him the plants in the first place. Jiyong was reluctant at first, but with some reassurance from Minho, and as he wanted to do this favour for his boyfriend, he agreed in the end. Johnny now lives with him and they are starting to get along quite well.

Both Minho and Jiyong try to stay up for the entirety of the marathon, but as they had their schedules throughout the day, they both end up nodding off halfway through the second movie. After some loud music from the movie awakes them, an argument about who should carry whom upstairs ensues. Eventually they decide simply to walk upstairs hand in hand—good enough.

* * *

Something soft and fluffy brushes his cheek. And then, something small and round presses into his chest. Jiyong opens his eyes. Johnny is walking across him, unbothered. Jiyong smiles, tries to reach out and pet the cat, but she only turns away and hops over to where Minho is lying. She settles on Minho’s chest and simply sits there.

Jiyong huffs. They still have bonding to do.

Knowing that he won’t be able to fall back asleep, Jiyong carefully rolls out of bed, doing his very best not to disturb Minho and Johnny. But as he stands, there’s a hand around his wrist, pulling him back.

“My alarm goes off in an hour,” Minho says sleepily. “Come here…”

Jiyong turns, sits on the bed and gives the cat, who looks quite comfy, a glance. “I think Johnny has my spot.”

Minho lets go of Jiyong’s hand in order to gently scoop up the cat and put her on the ground. She gives a little meow, but doesn’t protest otherwise.

“There. Your spot is free.”

Jiyong rolls his eyes and rolls back into the bed until he’s pressed up against Minho. “Here I am.”

“Hello,” Minho says with a little smile.

In order to completely copy the cat, Jiyong rolls on top of Minho. Minho lets out a joking “oof” sound as if he’s being crushed by Jiyong, but in the next second he’s smiling, lacing his fingers in Jiyong’s hair.

Jiyong leans in and pecks Minho’s lips. “Tell me I’m cuter than Johnny,” he says.

“Now you’re asking for too much,” Minho says.

Jiyong pouts, trying to make himself as cute as possible.

“I know what you’re doing.” Minho boops Jiyong’s nose. “But you’re asking me to compare my cat to my boyfriend. It is impossible.”

Jiyong stays pouting for a second longer before he sighs and drops the act. “Fine. Just tell me I’m cute and be done with it.”

“You’re adorable,” Minho says, cupping Jiyong’s cheeks.

Jiyong smiles. He leans in and presses his lips to Minho’s.

He could get used to this. Stolen moments in the early morning before Minho has to leave. Sharing the warmth of his bed, bodies pressed together. Minho’s hair is soft when Jiyong runs his fingers through it. When he puts his hand on Minho’s chest he can feel his heart beating.

He could get used to this.

All too soon the alarm goes off.

“Don’t go,” Jiyong murmurs, stealing another kiss.

“Are you being a bad influence? You don’t want me to get an education?”

Jiyong sighs, rolling off of Minho. “I was just being a sap. By all means, do abandon me.”

Minho props himself up on his elbow and leans over to kiss over Jiyong’s face. “Other than a sap, you’re being quite the drama queen. I do have to go back to my dorm _at some_ point.”

Jiyong holds Minho’s gaze. “What if you didn’t have to?”

Minho tilts his head quizzically.

“Move in here.”

Minho stares. Then he smiles. “It’s a lovely idea… But we should talk it over when there’s more time, hm?” He kisses Jiyong’s cheek. “I’ll think about it, though.” And he finally gets out of bed.

Jiyong watches him leave the room. He sighs, forcing himself to get up as well. He takes his pack of cigarettes, opens the window, sits on the windowsill and lights one up.

The Jiyong from a year ago couldn't even dream about waking up next to someone, let alone someone as lovely as Minho.

If he could write himself from the past a letter… Just to tell him that things would be alright.

He would tell himself that he understands. Things do seem tough right now, but closing yourself off and cutting off contact isn’t the way. He would tell himself that all he needs to do is reach out, and he will have the help that he needs. He would tell himself to get up, dust himself off and keep _trying_. Because it’s the only way to make it in the end.

He would tell himself that even now, when everything is so much better than it was a year ago, it isn’t perfect. There is so much to work on; Jiyong, as well as Minho, have a long way ahead of them on the road to recovery. He would tell himself that it’s still worth it. It’s worth this, the lazy mornings, the nights out with his friends, the movie nights and cuddle sessions. It’s worth the good moments, even though there will be bad ones.

It's not easy, it never has been. It won't be easy from now on either. But the very least, it's worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel is in the works. Meanwhile, I will be posting some short stories that are related to Jiyong's past as an addict. So, there will be both a series of short stories that serves as a prequel, and a series of connected short stories that will be a sequel.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed this story, and I hope you will like what I have planned for this story.
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you to everyone who commented and once again, thank you to my beta reader!!


	19. announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not an update, an announcement

The prequel series is up!

Titled 'crooked,' I will be posting a new short story every Monday!

Read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25548067/chapters/61991497).


	20. announcement 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not an update, an announcement

The sequel series is finally here!

Titled 'untitled,' I will be posting a new chapter every Monday!

Read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693098/chapters/70344429).


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